


The Rat's Nest

by Wulfykins



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Arthur Whump, Beating, Childhood Trauma, Choking, Fear of Death, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychological Torture, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Strangling, Torture, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wulfykins/pseuds/Wulfykins
Summary: Micah Bell reveals his true colors. With no signs of a rescue, Arthur is left to wonder if Dutch ever cared about him at all.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955245
Comments: 44
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur, crouched as he was, stared at the crossroad in the distance, rifle at the ready. Micah stood behind him, even loomed over his shoulder at one point. His vile stench bad enough to make any man retch.

“So where the hell is this dammed stage coming from?” He asked.

“Again with the questions, Morgan.”

“If you want me on lookout, you'd better fill me in on the details.”

“It'll be fine, just keep your eyes on the crossroad.” Micah said.

“We should have brought a third, like I said, don't make sense for you to be out there by yourself.” 

The man behind him simply grunted in response. Whatever, he couldn't care less, hated being dragged on a job with Micah. It meant there would be bodies, no matter how often the bastard promised it would be fine. He couldn't understand what Dutch saw in such a wild card. The man was a danger to all of them. 

“At least tell me when it's coming, Micah.” Arthur huffed.

“Oh, somewhere between not now and never.” The voice from behind him said.

“What?” He turned his head, eyes wide when the butt of Micah's gun came swinging at his face.

~~~

Arthur groaned before he even opened his eyes. His head throbbed painfully, memories hazy.  
He blinked a few times, found himself level with the ground. Micah, had he just?

“Finally, you were out for a good few minutes there. Would've been a shame if I killed ya.”

“Micah... you son of a-” Arthur tried to stand up, ready to beat the ever living shit out of Micah. He silently cursed when he was unable to get his hands under himself to stand up. They were bound behind him, not lightly either. 

“Micah, what the hell is you playing at?!” He demanded.

“We're going for a ride. Get up.” Micah mounted his horse.

“Untie me then.” How had it taken him so long to notice the tightness around his neck? The rope which lead from it to the back of Micah's saddle.

“I don't think so. Off we go, Morgan.” 

Micah spurred his horse forwards, Arthur knew he only had seconds before he'd be strangled. He shifted, moved his knees around and managed to clamber to his feet before the rope had gone taut. 

“Micah, I swear if you take me into camp like this...”

“We ain't going to camp.”

“What?” Arthur frowned.

“Gonna show you a little place I like to call a home away from home.”

“Micah this ain't funny, you ain't funny. _Untie me._ ”

“Oh I ain't joking, cowpoke.” Micah snarled at him.

“Is this because I didn't want you on that bank job?” Arthur was confused, couldn't understand what was going on. Something nagged at him, an ominous voice in the back of his head.

“Less talking, more walking.”

And walk they did, well he did, for hours too. Sometimes faster, too fast even. Micah was being an absolute bastard for whatever reason. But he hadn't lied. Arthur knew camp was eastward, but wherever Micah was leading him to, was further up north.

It was early morning when they started their journey, close to noon now. Nothing about this felt like an elaborate and unfunny joke. Whatever Micah had planned couldn't be anything pleasant. The man must know that Dutch would beat the crap out of him for this, or worse. Did he really think he could get away with tormenting him like this? For a moment Arthur wondered if Dutch would care at all. No, this was too far out of line, even by Dutch's standards. This time Micah's antics wouldn't go unpunished.

He's a rat.

That nagging feeling was back, the feeling that they'd all made a mistake to trust this snake of a man. Well, Dutch at least, the rest of them never really had. It seemed their suspicions may have been right all along.

May have been?

You're tethered to his horse with a noose around your neck, Morgan, don't be a moron. Of course the man is a rat. There's no other explanation for this. But there aren't any towns where they're headed, no law to hand him over to. _'A home away from home.'_ Did Micah have a secret hideout somewhere?

It didn't matter, he wouldn't find out. First he'd drop to his knees, then he'd fall forward, careful to not hurt himself. Easier said than done without hands to balance himself. He grunted when his body fell flat. Not easy, definitely not painless. Less so when the horse dragged him forward a few steps by his neck. Shit, maybe not the best plan. Okay, the horse stopped. Crap, the rope around his neck had tightened a fair bit.

Close your eyes, wait. A frustrated groan from Micah, the sound of boots hitting the ground. He's coming, hold still, pick the right moment.

“Come on Arthur, I expected you to have more stamina than this.”

A boot prodded his right side. He couldn't hold back a cough, the rope was so damned tight.

“Up and at em, let's go.” Micah goaded.

The rat lifted him by his arms, to his knees at first.

Not yet.

“Stand up.” Micah sounded impatient.

“Can't...” He croaked. That wasn't fake, his throat hurt already. Concentrate.

An exasperated sigh came from above him. The arms returned and helped him to his feet.

Now!

In one swift motion Arthur lunged towards him. He shoved Micah as hard as he could, shoulder to chest. When the man stumbled backwards he leg-swiped the dirty rat.

Micah's balance was already threatened from being shoved backwards, hard an unexpectedly. Arthur knew he could have withstood his legs being kicked out from underneath him. But only if he had been standing still, that's why he had tackled him first.

Arthur gave him a swift kick as soon as the bastard landed flat on his back. It served to roll him over on his side, another kick to push him face down on the ground. When he had him where wanted he immediately jumped on top of him. He straddled Micah, squeezed his legs together as hard as he could to keep the man's arms pinned at his sides.

Micah growled and twisted under him, unable to shake the weight off, with his arms pinned as they were it was impossible for him to reach his guns. Just as Arthur had planned.

“C-clever, Morgan. Now what?” Micah groaned, still attempted to wriggle free.

Shit. Bastard was right, now what? Strangle him? Snap his neck? He was the better hand to hand fighter and could manage that without a doubt, even without the use of his arms. But what would Dutch say, would his mentor even believe him? Micah seemed to have gained a lot of his favor as of late. Dutch had been behind him for every decision he made. Arthur felt as if he'd been reduced to a workhorse while Micah climbed all the way to the top. Why Dutch?

“Nothing? My turn then.” Micah let out a short but loud whistle.

He frowned down at Micah, it deepened when a grin appeared on the pinned man's face. Arthur's eyes widened when he heard a horse neigh behind him.

Baylock.

“Shi-” A strangled cry was cut off when he was jerked backwards by his neck. He landed on his back with a thud as Micah's horse went straight into a gallop.

His lungs were unable to draw in any air as the horse continued on it's path with him being dragged through dirt behind it. When he was certain he'd pass out, he heard another distant whistle. The horse stopped, gave him a chance to breathe again, barely. The rope around his neck had painfully tightened, every breath a wheeze as he lay there coughing.

He whimpered when he heard another, equally as distant whistle. As he feared the horse dragged him once more, this time back to the direction they had came from.

Again he thought he'd pass out, but like before, the horse stopped just before he had. 

Every breath he took was as labored as the previous one. He tilted his head sideways to clear up his airway. Saliva drooled out of his mouth between what felt like a series of coughs which would never end. 

“Well done Morgan.” Above him, Micah, the bastard, slow clapped as he approached.

“You'd best stick to your fists, since that brain of yours ain't good for much.” Micah drew his leg back and kicked Arthur in his side, hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

Arthur's cry sounded more like a gurgle. He rolled on his side, curled up to protect himself from further blows. The coughing hadn't stopped, worsened after Micah's boot connected with his side once more. Curling up offered him no protection against attacks from above. Not with his arms bound behind him. 

“You going to try that again?” Micah asked, he could hear the smile on his face.

He shook his head between coughs, unsure if the gesture had been clear enough.

“N-n-no.” He managed to say.

“Best not be, now get up, you've got more walking to do.” Micah leaned over and loosened the noose a bit.

His first, unrestricted inhale had been a deep one. A few more coughs later and he could finally breathe somewhat regularly.

“Can't...” This time it wasn't some ruse, that ordeal completely drained him.

“Fine, then I'll drag you by your feet.”

“N-no. I'll w-walk.” He coughed, only once this time. His throat hurt like hell.

“Attaboy.” Micah helped him to his feet, this time without incident.

They marched on.

~~~

The position of the sun told him they had traveled for another three or so hours.

“Here we are.” Micah said with spread arms as he proudly presented a tiny looking shack in the middle of nowhere. Hidden deep within the vast forests of the Grizzlies. 

“Looks cozy. Can we go home now?” He cleared his throat, his voice was still hoarse.

“This is home. Mine, and now yours, for some time at least.” Micah hitched his horse up and undid the rope from it's saddle. He held on to that end of it and pulled Arthur behind him as he lead them inside.

The words made Arthur frown. He was going to live here, what the hell did he have planned? Maybe he wasn't a rat. No, he had to be. But why not hand him over to the law then, what was all this drama for?

Micah held the rope in one hand, pistol in the other. Arthur was no longer tethered to the horse. This could be his chance to escape. But Micah was armed and ready now. Even if he could somehow stun him long enough, he'd still have to run. With his wrists lashed together behind him and a pair of overly exhausted legs, he wouldn't get far at all. The man would run him down on his horse within minutes. No doubt that had been the reason why Micah had made him walk and even run for so long. To tire him out. Because the bastard was a coward who couldn't even win against his own sorry excuse for a shadow.

Micah kicked a thick rug aside, the action revealed a double trapdoor, secured with a padlock. Arthur watched as Micah turned the dial a few times until it's lock clicked. 

Once both doors were open he was lead down more steps than he had expected. Micah must have been very familiar with the place. The man navigated through absolute darkness and managed to light the room up with an oil lantern.

To his surprise he wasn't in some dank, godforsaken cellar. Hidden away to keep slaves away from prying eyes. The room seemed somewhat decent. To his left a small table and two chairs. Scattered on top of it were a whole bunch of trinkets, some of them looked very valuable. Pocket watches, rings, necklaces, even a gold bar. The shelf adjacent to the table was stacked with expensive drinks and cans of food. 

What the hell?

On his right things seemed more grim. Chains were bolted into the wall. More than a few. Arthur quietly groaned, he must have been wrong. You don't have shackles lying around unless you plan to keep someone prisoner. He frowned at the object in the far corner. A winch, what use would that be in a room like this?

“What is this place?” He asked.

“Told ya, a home away from home. Well, that sorry excuse for a camp.”

“You....” Arthur glanced back at the table. “You've been hoarding valuables for yourself? Instead of donating them to the camp?”

“'Course. You think I'm going to give all I have so those worthless sacks of shit can live off of my efforts?” Micah snorted.

“Them's the rules Micah. You ain't above them. Ain't no one.” He spat.

Micah chuckled as he occupied himself with something Arthur couldn't see from his position behind the man. Was this his best chance for an escape? Possibly his last if the chains and shackles were a warning of what's to come. He could tackle Micah, bolt up the stairs, maybe kick the doors shut. It could buy himself some extra time to disappear into the treeline. 

It didn't matter if his chances for success were lower than a royal flush on the river. He had to try.

Arthur stepped back, counted to three and dashed towards Micah. When his large body collided with the smaller man it had knocked the bastard over. Without sparing him another glance Arthur turned and bolted for the stairs. A sharp tug on the noose around his neck held him back before he even got to the fourth step.

He gagged as he was forced back a step or two. There was no way Micah still held on to it, the man wasn't that fast. With a confused frown he turned around and traced the rope to it's origin.

Shit.

Earlier on, while he was busy surveying the room, Micah had tied it to a chain which dangled from the ceiling. The little rat had already scrambled back to his feet and hurried over to the winch in the far corner.

Double shit. 

Arthur understood it's purpose now. If he couldn't run away from the problem then his only chance would be to run towards his. One foot dug into the ground beneath it. He boosted off it, made one last effort to get to Micah who already worked as hard as he could to turn the handle on the winch.

Arthur was close, close enough to land a kick against the bastard leg. Sadly any further attacks were out of the question. He almost lost his balance as he was dragged backwards while Micah continued to turn the handle.

“Another plan gone south, you really have a bad habit with that, don't you?” Micah panted through his efforts of speaking and fighting against Arthur's strength. 

Arthur grit his teeth together as he fought against Micah and his device. But he only had a precarious balance and a closed off windpipe to push against the force. Micah on the other hand, had both his arms and the power of a mechanical device to help him. Not to mention the bastard hadn't been forced to almost run behind a horse for half a day.

His strangled outcry echoed through the room as his feet no longer touched the ground. He gasped for air. Gurgled as his legs flailed around and blindly searched for anything to stand on.

There was nothing.

Micah sighed with relief. “Well... afraid that was your last chance to get out. Shame you missed it.” He smirked.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, fully focused on keeping his neck muscles as tensed up as he could. He wouldn't die like this. Not in this piece of shit hole in the ground. Miles away from his family.

His heart pounded in his neck, still he could make out the faint sound of a bottle being uncorked. The bastard was drinking. So Micah planned to watch as he was strangled to death. Then this was the end after all.

Dammit Dutch, I warned you.

Something scraped across the wooden floor. When the noise stopped one of his feet bumped against an object. Something he could stand on, he had to swing forward to reach it, accidentally kicked it away. It was gone now.

No, please.

His struggles weakened, it became harder to focus, his head felt like it was on fire. The scraping noise was there again, muffled but recognizable. His feet tried again, they found it. This time it hadn't moved when he touched it, he could finally stand on it, but only on his tiptoes. The crush against his windpipe lessened but hadn't vanished. But he could breathe, he could finally breathe.

“Don't say I never do nothing for ya, Morgan.” Micah removed his foot from the upside down bucket.

He wanted to tell the bastard to shut up. But his body had other ideas as it kept him trapped in a vicious coughing spree.

“Best get comfortable Morgan, you'll be spending the next three or so weeks in here.”

“W-what?” He croaked between coughs.

“That's about how long we have until the Pinkerton's come and pick you up. They were going to be here in a few days. But I just couldn't resist asking for a little bit of extra time with ya. Agent Milton didn't seem to mind.”

“Y-you rat, k-knew it.” He wheezed.

“I ain't no rat. I'm a survivor Morgan.” Micah slammed his bottle down on the table. “That's why I'm standing here and you're hanging there.”

“D-Dutch f-find you.” His words barely a whisper.

Micah laughed. “Ain't no one going to find this place. I've had it for months.”

“No one will come looking for you either. Poor Arthur Morgan, gunned down at a stage robbery gone wrong. His hat the only memory left of him. I'm heartbroken just thinking about it.” Micah rested a hand against his own chest.

“R-rat.” He repeated.

“Three weeks is a long time Morgan. A long time for me to introduce pain to every inch of your body.”

“T-try me.” Why was he even speaking through all this pain. He should just shut up himself.

“I just need one thing from ya. If you give it to me, I'll let agent Milton know he can collect you immediately. Then it'll all be over and you'll only have to swing one more time.”

Arthur opened his eyes with a frown on his face.

“The Blackwater money, I know Dutch told you. where is it?” Micah narrowed his eyes at him.

So that was the reason why he brought him here. Arthur managed to utter some strangled laughter.

Micah shrugged. “Fine by me. Then let's have some fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nothing special, I know, just some run of the mill whump.
> 
> Still, thank you for reading! Would love to hear what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Micah had made good on his promise of fun, only the _fun_ had been very much one sided. The rope around his neck still held his windpipe prisoner as he was forced to balance himself on a flimsy and unsteady bucket. If left alone it was fine, exhausting, but manageable. Of course Micah hadn't left him alone. 

Bastard switched between hitting him hard in his gut and his sides, more blows than he could count. Still he managed to keep his balance. The worst moments were whenever Micah decided to land a few kicks against the back of his knees. Every time that happened he had lost his footing. Sometimes he had accidentally knocked the bucket over and was left there to swing. Every time his legs flailed around aimlessly, Micah had erupted in laughter. The fucking rat always waited for his struggles to weaken before he placed the bucket back to where it was.

It went on like this for what felt like hours. To the point where he his legs trembled badly enough to make the bucket tip over every time he tried to stand on it. It became a game for Micah. He would hold it steady for him and then let go. Then the rat would count how long he could manage to stand still without tipping it over. Whenever he did better than the previous attempt, the bastard would clap and congratulate him. If he had done worse, the man punished him with another blow against his side.

Micah was a sadistic piece of shit.

When he was left swinging for longer than usual, Arthur thought it was over. He feared Micah had enough with his continuous refusal to tell the man what he wanted to hear. The one object which kept his windpipe from being crushed to death never returned. Micah remained silent during the ordeal. It wasn't until his legs stopped flailing around that he felt himself being lowered to the ground. Unfortunately it hadn't helped, his legs couldn't hold him up, try as they did. He was lowered further, until he could sit on his knees as he gasped and sobbed from the agony he felt in not just his neck and lungs. Everything was sore, what was only a few hours of torment seemed like it had been days. The thought of many more like this sent a wave of dread over him. 

Fingers fiddled with the noose around his neck. At first he feared he was about to be strung up again. But after much effort, no doubt because it had been pulled so painfully tight from all the times his entire weight was held up by it, it finally loosened. Now, for the first in a long time he could finally breathe freely, labored and raspy as it was. 

“Same question, Morgan. Tell me where the money is.”

His chin rubbed against his chest as he shook his head no.

“Suit yourself, then we go again.” Micah said.

He whimpered when the noose was pulled over his head again. “N-no.”

“No? Then give me what I want.”

Arthur hesitated, too long it seemed, he could feel the knot push against the back of his neck as Micah tightened it.

“T-tree.” The word was followed by a gurgle.

“What was that?” Micah asked before he loosened the knot.

“Oak tree, b-behind church. Buried t-there.” The hoarseness of his voice, the pain caused by his vocal chords moving. Both alarmed him, he had never experienced anything like this, never wanted to again.

The noose was removed again. He expected Micah to question him further, something related to if he spoke the truth or not. But it never came. What did come was a painful kick against his side, forceful enough to knock him over.

He groaned at the pain in his side, which was now bruises over older bruises. Arthur tried to resist while he was being dragged by his feet, confused and concerned over what Micah had planned next. He frowned when his boots were removed. Confusion switched to panic when cold metal touched his left ankle. He tried to use his right leg to crawl away, the effort almost non existent with his hands still tied behind him. 

“Don't be going anywhere now.” Micah smirked.

He was dragged back to where he was. An action which cost him a tremendous amount of energy was nothing more than a slight breeze for his captor. More metal, this time around his right ankle, followed by the click of two locks. 

Micah made a straining noise when he pulled Arthur up to a sitting position. Good, sweat a little you bastard.

Thoughts of escape resurfaced when Micah untied his hands. He groaned when his arms fell limp at his sides. A sensation of a thousand needles being forced into them made him hunch over in pain. Before he could react Micah had attached more shackles to each of his wrists, thus ending any chances he had to fight for freedom. 

“There we go, hope you're cozy, you're gonna be here for awhile.” Micah retrieved the oil lamp which hung from the wall. His free hand was ready to turn it off.

Arthur frowned, his eyes locked on the lamp in Micah's hand.

“Actually...” Micah held up a finger as he spun around and seemed to search for something. He retrieved a small canteen from a nearby shelf and tossed it over towards him. Arthur hadn't glanced down at it, he was too focused on Micah.

“That should hold ya over. I figure it's about two days riding to Blackwater and back.” Micah kicked the bucket over to Arthur, perfect aim made it slide to a halt right next him.

Arthur's eyes widened. Two days? He moved his legs forward so he could stand, but found the chains to already be taut while his knees were pulled up to his chest. Stretching them would not be possible at all. 

“W-wait.” He croaked.

“Don't have too much fun without me.” Micah tipped his hat at him, turned the oil lamp off and headed up the stairs.

“M-Micah...” He tried to shout after the man, but his voice lacked strength. He swallowed, cleared his throat, the cellar doors closed and plunged him in complete darkness.

“Micah!” He tried again, this time it had been louder, still barely at his normal speaking volume. He wanted to tell the man that he had lied, that his two day journey would be for nothing. But if he did, he's surely be tortured again, if anything he bought himself some time to rest. That was a good thing, right? The last thing he heard was a thud against the thick wooden doors, presumably the padlock falling as it was dropped.

Silence.

There was no further noise. He couldn't even hear the outside door open or close, the sound of hooves, birds, absolutely nothing.

Two days.

“Micah!” He had to try again, there was no way the bastard had believed him, this was just a ruse to torment him further, it had to be. He kept his head turned to the left, where he knew the stairs to be. He listened, waited for the faintest of noises to indicate that Micah was still around. There was nothing, not even a speck of light to help him see anything at all. Not a single sound other than the occasional clanking of metal as he flexed his fingers. At least his arms hurt a bit less.

He jerked them forward. The chain was only long enough for his hands to touch the ground right in front of the wall he sat against, but no further.

Seconds of solitude turned into minutes, minutes into what felt like hours. His guts and side were still sore from the beating he endured, his throat hurt the most. He traced a hand along the wall. He discovered that the chains, linked to the shackles around his wrists, were fixed to the wall on either side of him, at his current shoulder height. It meant he could at least stand up if he wanted to.

It took him some time to find the canteen which Micah had throw at him. At first he panicked when his hands couldn't find it. When he shifted his left foot a few inches sideways, he bumped against it and was able to pull it closer. A quick shake told him it was half full, he sniffed the odorless liquid. Water, at least he had that. On his right stood the bucket within arms reach, he knew what that was for. 

Two days.

Stop. He's trying to scare you, he'll be back sooner. Get some rest, build your strength so you can actually fight when he returns. You had three chances, you blew them all like the fool you are.

Two days.

For God's sake, stop thinking about it. Close your eyes, get some rest, Micah will be back before you even wake up. He nodded to himself, shifted around until he was as comfortable as he could be in this position, which wasn't much at all. Still he felt himself drift off sooner than he could have hoped for. 

~~~

Arthur's eyes shot open, immediately he turned his head left and right. Not to point his eyes, but his ears into the direction from which he swore he heard a sound. His eyes darted around in complete darkness. He frowned when no other sound followed to clue him into what he had just heard. He must have imagined it. 

Being trapped in total darkness gave him the added disadvantage of being unable to tell the time. He had no idea if he'd been asleep for an hour or half a day. The throbbing in his side from Micah's repeated kicks told him it couldn't have been that long. His arm's seemed to be at full strength again, that was something. It allowed him to renew his efforts against the bolts which held his chains in place. He pulled on them, as hard as he could, over and over until his breath became labored. No use, and now his wrists hurt. Great.

With a heavy sigh he rested the back of his head against the wall. The tip of his left finger brushed against the canteen and tempted him to take a swig. But if Micah would indeed be true to his word then he figured he'd best be saving every drop he could. Two days was a long time with just half a canteen.

Two days.

If only he could count the remaining hours, that would help. He had a rough idea of where he was, could imagine the route he'd take from here if it was him who rode to Blackwater. Micah was right, it was absolutely a days journey, without a break at least. Baylock was built for stamina, not speed. Micah's horse wouldn't have much problems with riding through the night. If Micah would, was an entirely different question, one he was sure had an answer which would favor him the least. 

He won't leave you to rot. He needs you alive. Agent Milton expects you alive. So no matter what, Micah would return. Arthur grimly chuckled at his own thoughts. Never had he imagined that there would ever be a time where he planned exactly when, and if Micah would return to him.

He passed the time by trying to remember the lyrics to a few campfire songs he had heard from the others. Eventually he ran out of songs, not that he wanted to continue anyways. Maybe he could smash his head against the wall until he passed out? At least that would make time go faster. But it would also leave him with a splitting headache, or worse, a gaping wound. Scratch that plan. 

He kept thinking how long it had been, tried to find a way to count the time. At first he started to count the seconds in his head, by the time he had gotten to around five hundred he dozed off.

~~~

A startled cry left his mouth when his eyes opened. Chains rattled when his arms moved up to cover his face from the incoming blow. After a few seconds he sighed when he realized it had just been a bad dream. There was no Micah, no object about to painfully smash into his face. It was a stupid dream you moron. Still, he glanced around the room, his eyes scanned the darkness around him. For a second he swore he saw movement where he knew the corner of the room to be. He continued to stare in that direction. Had Micah returned and been silently watching him?

No. You would have heard him. You're imagining things, stop. 

He knew better, still his heart pounded in his chest as he kept looking around the room for any movement. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, he concentrated on getting his breathing under control. He didn't understand why he was so nervous. There was no one here, it was just in his head. 

Two fucking days.

Surely one day had passed by now, he had fallen asleep how many times, two, tree? Four to five hours on average, if he was lucky, so that meant he had slept for at least twelve hours. He groaned, that was just half a day. Another day and a half to go, _if_ his assumption was correct.

Shit.

Perhaps Micah had gone back to camp? Spun some lies about his death and was forced to face an entire camp of folk who hadn't believed him. They would investigate the area, ask around in the nearby towns if they heard anything about a dead outlaw. They wouldn't find anything, no proof of his supposed demise. Then Dutch would beat the ever living shit out of that rat until he squealed. 

As if.

The more likely outcome would be Dutch eating up every word which came out of that snake's mouth. He could already picture Dutch as he praised the bastard for not getting himself killed as well. If anything they'd both be reminiscing about how much of an idiot they thought he was. Maybe they weren't wrong about that. He'd been foolish enough to blindly follow Micah into the bastards trap. 

No. Dutch would search for him, if not by his own choice then Hosea would have kicked him hard enough until he did. They wouldn't take anything Micah said at face value, not this. They were looking for him, they had to be.

He shifted around, bumped into the canteen again. God he was thirsty. If it had been half a day then surely he could afford to take a small sip. No, save it, if Micah wouldn't be back then surely the others would come for him, but that might be a few days more. He should preserve what he had. The canteen was already opened, already brushed against his lips even as he told himself he shouldn't. 

Just a sip.

Arthur shook the canteen and cursed. That had been more than just a sip. At least half of what was in there. It was too late to dwell on his mistake, that's all he seemed to do as of late, one after the other.

While he was lost in his self loathing he realized he had absentmindedly taken another swig.

“Son of a...” He closed it, set it back down. Out of sheer frustration he jerked his right arm forward a few times. Those damned chains. 

To pass the time he decided to stretch his legs for a bit, how he'd get to a standing position was a puzzle he hadn't yet solved. He could use the wall, push his back against it, maybe use the chains to pull at the same time. 

His first attempt failed miserably when a sharp pain erupted in his side. He cursed at his stupidity, though he hadn't expected the pain to be that bad. Sitting was fine for now, he concluded.

For the next hours his mind worked on various things to keep itself occupied. At first he plotted a route from camp to this shitty hole in the ground. Then he started to imagine different ways to beat the shit out of Micah, the latter entertained him for some time.

Eventually the boredom and soreness helped him fall asleep again. Like before, he woke up again to a noise. Or so he thought. He groaned, hoped it wouldn't be like this every time he drifted off. On the other hand, the more he slept now, the less he'd be able to sleep later. Then he'd be stuck without any way to pass the time in larger chunks.

Another noise.

It made him frown, he wasn't asleep, so it couldn't have been in his head, could it?

One of the cellar doors creaked as it was opened, the incoming light was like a dagger had been plunged into his eyes. Still, it had been the most beautiful sound he had heard in God knows how long.

Now he was faced with a mixture of joy and dread. He already knew it was Micah, heard the bastard hum as he opened the second door. But at least he was no longer alone, but that meant he'd likely be tortured once more. At least until he gave the rat another location. He tried to open his eyes again, this time it hurt a bit less than before and he could keep them open. Thankfully, the amount of light which came from the stairway hadn't been that bright. 

He watched Micah as the man continued to hum on his way down. Hummed while he emptied his pockets and dropped some things on the table. They sounded metallic, more items he stole. That meant he had either not gone back to camp or that he had and was immediately sent out on another job. So if they had believed the bastards story about his death, did that mean no one had taken the time mourn him?

Micah hadn't cast a single glance in his direction, shook his pockets, probably to check if they were empty. Arthur swallowed when the bastard continued to hum on his way back up the stairs.

“M-Micah?” He finally said with a voice hoarser than it had been before.

He was ignored, the room became slightly darker when the first cellar door closed.

“Micah!?” He desperately called out. Had it been two days? Was the man really going to leave him again?

”Micah, how long has it been?!” He shouted, it hurt his throat, but he didn't care.

As the second door closed Micah purposely hummed louder until the sound was cut off.

“Micah you bastard, come back here!” He practically screamed as he pulled on every chain which tethered him to the wall.

He called out for him a few more times but was greeted by nothing but silence.

“Don't leave me here...” He said with a much quieter voice.

At first he sobbed for a bit, then the anger resurfaced. He started to twist and pull against his shackles until his wrists were raw, continued to scream until his throat was even more raw.

In the end, when the reality of his solitude sank in, he was back to where he started; a sobbing mess of a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tempted to add an extra chapter for this. It was more enjoyable to write than I thought it would be.
> 
> Hope it's a decent read as well. It's always great to hear a readers thoughts.
> 
> Thank you, as always! <3


	3. Chapter 3

Had it been hours? Days? No. It couldn't have been days since Micah last paid him a two minute visit. Hardly a visit though, bastard just pretended he wasn't here. Wasn't a prisoner in his damned hole in the ground.

He was hungry, sure. But not painfully starving, so it couldn't have been days.

A sound.

“Hello?” His head was turned in the direction of the doors. He heard the lock. No, that wasn't possible, he couldn't hear that from the inside...

“Micah?”

Nothing.

“D-Dutch?” He called out with a crack in his voice.

What was he thinking, Dutch wasn't coming. No one was. They hadn't followed Micah here like he hoped they had.

“Hello?!”

There was a noise to his right, a loud one, it sounded like a foot shuffled around.

“Who's there?!” He felt his heart pound faster, didn't like being trapped against the center point of the wall, a corner would have been better. He knew the winch was in the corner on his right. But he couldn't remember what was on his left. Some barrels next to the stairs? It didn't matter.

Why had he called out? There's no one in here with him. From where he sat it was only about twenty feet to the wall. The noises unnerved him.

Still, he felt watched, it unsettled him, his mind was playing tricks on him. Unfortunately knowing that hadn't helped to calm his nerves, not even in the slightest.

A loud creaking noise preceded a few rays of sunlight which shot down the stairs. He had to look away, it was too bright. He sneaked in a quick glance through squinted eyes and sighed.

Micah.

He silently cursed himself for expecting it to be anyone else.

“Ah!” He cried out in pain and turned his head away when Micah lit the oil lamp. It felt like the bright light had split his head in two.

He tried to open his eyes again but it still hurt too much, almost felt more blinding than the actual darkness.

“Micah, let me out of here dammit.” He heard a bottle open, the sound of a chair being pulled back. That meant Micah intended to stay for a bit, he shouldn't feel relieved about that, but he did.

“Oh, forgot you were here.” Micah snickered.

Even after his third attempt, he couldn't keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds before the pain became too much to bare.

“So... Told Dutch and the others about your sad, sad ending. They readily ate it all up, even I was surprised.”

“You lie.” He growled.

“You think I care if you believe me or not?”

“I ain't in no mood for your games.”

“Likewise.” Micah said. 

A chair scraped across the wooden floor.

“You still owe me an apology Morgan.”

“What?”

“For sending me to Blackwater for nothing.”

With Micah stood in front of him, between the lantern and himself. He was able to keep his eyes open, but still squinted from the pain.

“Stop talking shit. I know you never went.”

Micah shrugged at him, a smile formed on his lips.

“Might've done, so apologize.”

“Fuck you.”

Micah's bottom lip pushed outward while the man nodded. “Guess you're not hungry then?”

“Just let me go, you rat bastard.”

“You sure that's how you want to be talking to me from the position you're in?” Micah took a wide step sideways.

“Argh!” He cried out when the light drove spikes into his eyes once more, he could hear Micah chuckle. God damn did he want a chance to take a swing at the bastard.

The chain was barely long enough for his fingers to provide some protection for his eyes.

“Kiss it.” Micah rested a foot on top of Arthur's left knee and wriggled it around.

He glared up at the man, Arthur's anger filled eyes remained locked with Micah's expression of amusement. The longer he stared, the angrier he got. He jerked his hand forward in an attempt to grab hold of Micah's foot and twist until he snapped a bone. But he only got as far as his finger tips brushing against it, bastard seemed to know his limited range all to well. How many people had he kept down here? 

“I'm waiting.”

“You can wait forever.”

“Suit yourself. Just remember this moment. That way it'll be all the sweeter once you realize I've broken you.” Micah withdrew his foot.

He shifted, grateful that the edges of the shackle no longer cut into his ankle. Micah had already returned to his table and sat down with a can of food in his hands. Of course the bastard was going to eat in front of him.

“How long have I been in here?” He eventually asked.

“Who knows?” Micah shrugged his shoulders, scooped some more food into his mouth.

“Enough with the games, just tell me.”

“I asked you something too, and you refused. Fair is fair, right?”

His eyes narrowed further. “You know that ain't the same.”

“Hm hm.” Micah mumbled as he made a show of stuffing the last peach from the can into his mouth.

Arthur sighed when his stomach growled.

“Hungry, Morgan?”

“...No.” He lied.

“Well, then I'd best be on my way, busy times and all that.” Micah got up.

“Wait... Yes, yes I'm hungry.” Anything to not be alone in the dark again for even a little longer.

He still had to squint his eyes against the light. They followed Micah around as the man exchanged his empty canteen for another.

“You ready kiss my feet?”

Arthur lifted his chin with a look of defiance on his face. Really, it was a simple thing, shove his pride aside for a few seconds and he'd get some food, maybe. But this was Micah, he'd rather starve than have to look at that bastards smug grin one more time.

Micah turned his back to him, retrieved the oil lamp from the wooden beam it hung from.

“I ain't too sure if I'll have the time to drop by tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “C-can you leave the light on?”

Micah turned to face him, seemed to contemplate his request for a second.

“I don't know Morgan. I don't want to ruin my reputation as an expert torturer.” Micah's voice was filled with sarcasm.

“Please...” He quietly begged.

When Micah's expression changed to one of pure joy he regretted his desperate plea and turned his head away.

“Damn, I love myself so much.” He chuckled. “See you in a few days, cowpoke.”

Arthur closed his eyes when the lamp turned off.

~~~

Later on he discovered that Micah had left him a full canteen this time around. Not a good sign in his mind. So Dutch and the others had believed the rat about his death? It wasn't possible, he must have lied and not told them anything. Sure, Dutch had grown a liking to the bastard, but he wouldn't throw twenty years out of the window based on nothing more than the word of that snake.

He would.

“No. No he won't.” He said to himself.

Dutch stopped caring about you for a long time.

“That ain't true.”

Micah tells him exactly what he wants to hear, you ain't never done that. That's why you're nothing more than a workhorse to him.

“No, stop. It ain't true, I know he's looking for me.”

He's not.

“He is, stop thinking that way you fool. They won't give up, if not Dutch then the others would.”

The others are looking for him. Arthur nodded to himself.

_'Arthur, why do you always disappoint me?'_

“Shut up, Dutch.”

~~~

Half empty.

That was him being conservative with the water he had. At least he finally managed to stand up and stretch his legs a bit. But the idea he had about being able to move for at least two steps had been wrong. One at best, away from the wall. God damned Micah.

Arthur had started to hum the same tune more frequently, an effort to drown out the weird noises he kept hearing. It also served as a temporary distraction from thoughts about what his family was doing at this very moment.

“Not looking for you, that's for sure...” He half chuckled to himself.

“'Course not, why would they be.”

You kept the money and food coming in. They need you.

“No they don't need me.” He scoffed. “Charles is a great hunter, probably picked up the slack already.”

A deep sigh escaped past his lips. He pulled his legs closer to his chest so he could rub his bare feet. The cellar had gotten colder as of recent.

“Maybe I'll freeze to death, that'd be a nice _fuck you_ to Micah.” He half joked.

His stomach rumbled again. He sighed at it, the hunger had gotten worse too. Much worse.

You turned your back on a man you didn't trust, what did you expect?

“Not this...” He chuckled at himself again.

Something shuffled around, to his right. In the far corner? His breath sped up immediately, it did that at every noise now. Why hadn't he gotten used to hearing things? He knows there's nothing there, it's not real.

“Go away!” He yelled anways.

“Just go away...” He said more quietly.

~~~

Three quarters gone.

He was still thirsty, the hunger though, that had gotten really bad, to the point where he couldn't sleep anymore. He remembered being hungry before he had met Dutch, but never like this. He had gone a day or two without food several times before he managed to steal some. Never had the hunger been this bad.

_'Pa, I'm hungry.'_

_'Useless piece of shit, go find your own damned food.'_

“I can't you God damned bastard.” He jerked his arms around and rattled his chains.

_'I can't, is there anything you can do?' The voice mocked._

“Shut the hell up, I was eight!” He snarled.

_'You're a waste of space, wish you was never born.'_

“Shut up, shut up. Shut up!” The words had gotten louder every time he repeated them. He covered his ears with the palms of his hands, a desperate attempt to silence the voice in his head.

But it didn't stop, Lyle never stopped. Kept taunting him with that condescending tone of his. 

“Hmmhmm.” He started humming the first song he recalled.

_'They ain't coming for ya, you was nothing but a burden to them. Always getting yerself in trouble.'_

“I ain't listening.” Arthur hummed louder as he rocked back and forth.

_'You think Dutch was a better daddy than me? The man don't give two shits about ya.'_

“Not listening.” He shook his head and resumed humming.

_'Stop sobbing boy, that's all you ever do. Real men don't sob.'_

“I ain't fucking sobbing!” He yelled as tears welled up in his eyes.

_'Now you see why Dutch don't want you no more. 'Cause he sees your for the useless sack of shit that you is. Just like I'd done.'_

“Please stop... please.” The reservoir of tears which had built up now flowed freely down his cheeks.

~~~

Arthur opened his eyes to absolute darkness, why even bother, he thought. He had been so emotionally drained that he eventually drifted off. For how long he didn't know. He remembered something unpleasant and felt around for the canteen. Shook it when he found the object in question.

Empty.

He cursed at himself for letting his emotions get the upper hand. In a moment of weakness he had emptied the last of the canteen.

There it was. The sound he had been longing for, accompanied by a stabbing pain in his eyes. The brief spark of hope that maybe it wasn't Micah quickly vanished when the man hummed on his way down the steps.

Like he had done the first time, Micah hadn't turned on the oil lamp and emptied the contents of his pockets on the table.

“Micah... wait please.” His voice cracked.

“I'll kiss your feet!” He quickly said as Micah was already two steps on his way out of the cellar.

Micah stopped and turned to face him, it was hard to see. As dim as the few rays of sunlight were, they still near blinded him. In spite of that he knew the bastard had a wide grin on his face.

He preemptively squeezed his eyes shut when Micah made his way over to the oil lamp. He heard him approach, then the unpleasant feeling of a foot on his knee forced his leg downwards until the chain stopped it.

“I'm waiting.” Micah said.

He sneaked in a quick look through the narrow slits between his eyelids. His pride told him to back down, to refuse. But the hunger. It was too strong, stronger than what little willpower he had left.

Micah wriggled his foot around. “Come on, I'll even give you some delicious peaches as dessert. Yumm, right?”

Peaches. The thought of drinking those juices alone made his mouth water. He leaned forward until his lips bumped into the cold metal of Micah's boot tips. He hadn't lingered for a second and pulled his head back immediately.

“You call that a kiss? You can do better, Arthur.”

He dared not hesitate, he knew Micah. The man would gladly use even the smallest mistake as a reason to let him stew alone some more. He leaned forward again, planted a proper kiss on top off the steel tipped boot.

“Such a momentous occasion.” Micah grinned.

_'Pathetic.'_

“Shut up, Lyle.” He quietly mumbled.

“You say something?” Micah was already on his way to pick out a can from his supply shelf.

“No.” He sighed and lowered his head in shame.

“Hold your hands out.” Micah ordered.

He did as told, a pair of shaking hands rested on top of his knees, palms up. With closed eyes, Arthur held on to the can which was placed in his hands as if his life depended on it. A quick but painful glance told him it was peaches. He felt some of the liquid spill on his hands as he brought it closer to his mouth. His grip tightened, an attempt to hold it steady and not waste any more of the precious juices.

Arthur wolfed it all down and drank all the juice until there wasn't a drop left. He sobbed when his fingers reached into an empty can. It was snatched out of his hand soon after.

“Open your mouth, stick your tongue out.” Another command from Micah.

This time he hesitated, but not for long. Quivering lips carefully parted, the tip of his tongue rested on top of his bottom lip. He tried to open his eyes, but Micah's body wasn't blocking the oil lamp, so he couldn't keep them open. Something hard touched his tongue, then he recognized the salty taste of jerky.

“Go on, Dutch's lapdog. Bite down.”

With his teeth he gripped on to it, Micah's firm grip on the meat helped him tear off a piece. Bastard congratulated him and dropped the other half into his hand.

_'Told ya, you ain't no man.'_

“Fuck off, Lyle.”

“Lyle? You going crazy there Morgan?” Micah bemusedly asked.

Arthur chewed in silence, finally he had gotten to a point where he could keep his eyes open as long as he squinted, it still hurt, a lot.

“Hm. Thank me for feeding you.” Micah demanded.

A fair amount of obscenities lingered in the back of his throat. He knew his pride had returned with a vengeance and was eager to unleash on the bastard. But Micah had all the power, it would be a mistake, a costly one at that. He took a deep breath, counted to five in his head.

“T-thank you.”

“For?”

Bastard.

“F-for feeding me. Thank you for feeding me.”

His whole face heated up when his hair was tousled, he had to grit his teeth together to stop himself from lashing out.

“So... The Blackwater money, where is it?”

He turned his head away, shook it ever so slightly.

Micah let out an annoyed sigh. “Morgan. Your life is literally in my hands. When you eat, drink, how much. I can make this your home until the day you die if I want.”

He swallowed deeply. The thought of being here much longer terrified him. But Micah asked for too much. To betray Dutch, his mentor, the man he swore loyalty to, over two decades ago. The price was too high.

“No.” He whispered.

“Fine, then there's no reason for me to stay.”

“No.” He tried to reach out for him. “Don't go.”

Micah smirked down at him, bastard enjoyed this too much. “The money, I'll even leave the light on for you while I retrieve it. If I find it, this'll all be over for you.”

Two days. He could be out of this hell hole in two days. The smell of fresh air, the warm rays of the sun. He could experience all that again in two days.

_'You'll be the first to betray me, Arthur.'_

“You betrayed me first Dutch.” He spat.

“Geez Morgan, you best tell me, seems like you're losing it.”

He was tempted to spill his guts. Too tempted. Was Dutch right about his loyalties? No, of course not. He'd die for the man, abandoned or not, he'd still die for him.

“No.” He said with more resolve.

“Fine. Just try to not completely lose it before I return in a few days.”

“D-days?” His head shot up to look at Micah. “W-wait, I need more food, more water.” His chests started to rise and fall at an increased rate.

“I'll leave you the whole shelf if you give me what I want.”

“You know I can't. Anything Micah, I'll do anything but that.”

“Bark.”

He frowned up at him, Micah had his brows raised.

“W-woof.” He mumbled.

“Again.”

“Woof.”

“Louder.”

“Woof!”

“Good doggy.” Micah let out a hearty laugh and ruffled his hair again. The man turned on his heels and extinguished the oil lamp.

“W-wait, you said...”

“I said bark. I never said you'd get anything for it.” He grinned and headed up the stairs.

“You bastard! Damn you!” He shouted after him.

“Damn you...” He sobbed as he was left behind. The darkness suffocated him once more. Worse; it now terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't know what this is. Feels like I've gotten worse at writing instead of better.
> 
> I have two endings in mind for this, a good and a bad one. I'll use the chapter title to label which is which and release them at the same time.
> 
> Prepare for more disappointment! Sorry to those of you who had been waiting for this. Would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.


	4. Chapter 4

“Where is you hiding, boy?”

Arthur held his breath. Covered his nose and mouth with his hands while terror filled eyes stared at the boots in front of him.

“Arty, we's just gonna have a talk is all.”

The boots stepped away from the bed he hid under and turned towards the door. He heard the sloshing of liquid followed by a loud burp. His heart pounded faster when the feet turned towards him. He knew he messed up when he spent all morning chasing around and playing with a stray dog he encountered outside the town.

One step towards him, two steps. A drop of liquid landed on his hands, followed by another. Don't cry, he thought to himself, eight year old men don't cry.

He jumped when Lyle's face appeared in his vision. “Found ya.”

He was dragged out from underneath the bed by the collar of his tattered shirt and pulled upright.

“Wipe them tears away you pathetic little shit.”

“Yes sir.” He sniffled, used his sleeve to wipe the snot and tears from his face.

Lyle took another swig from his bottle “Don't ever let me catch you hiding again when you know it's payday. Show me what you got.”

A small, shaky hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocket watch with a crack in the glass. He presented it to the man who towered over him. 

“That it?! You think you can pay your keep with that shit?” Lyle's free hand slapped the watch out of his hand.

“I-I'm sorry pa... I-” He sobbed.

Lyle repeated little Arthur's words with a mocking tone.

“I said stop sniveling, be a God damned man.”

He nodded,”'m sorry.”

“Now get your sorry ass back to town and don't come back until you can pay off your debt for living here.” Lyle said with a raised voice.

“I don't wanna walk through the woods in the dark.” He was grabbed by the collar again, dragged out towards the front door and pushed outside.

“I don't give a shit. Go make us some money.” Lyle ordered.

“I don't wanna, it's too dark, pa please.” He couldn't stop the flow of tears when he faced the terrifying darkness around him.

“I said _stop_ crying.”

Young Arthur flinched when the back of a hand came flying towards his face.

~~~

“Pa, stop!” Arthur's eyes shot open, his hands flew up to cover his face and protect himself from the incoming blow. But he couldn't reach his face, his hands were held back by metal around his wrists.

His eyes danced around the pitch black cellar. Part of him was absolutely convinced that Lyle lurked in the shadows somewhere, ready to strike him.

“It ain't real, there's no one here.” He rocked back and forth while he repeated the words.

_“You sure about that, boy?”_

The chains rattled as he tried to shift to his right, away from the voice on his left. He swore he could see the slender form of his farther. Somehow it stood out more, as if it was blacker than the darkness itself.

“Y-you stay the hell away from me!”

_“Aw, is little Arty afraid of the dark?”_

“Shut up.”

_”All them years and you is still just a little boy.”_

“You're dead, you ain't real. Dead, not real. It's not real.” His upper body continued it's rocking motion.

~~~

Arthur's loud cry echoed throughout the cellar when the bright light of an oil lamp descended from the stairs.

Micah sounded like he was absolutely delighted by his pain filled outcry when the man laughed at it.

“I am seriously tempted to keep you here and forgo the bounty on your head.” Micah said.

“Micah... let me go, please. I swear I won't tell Dutch nothing.” He sobbed.

“I need you out of the gang. Can't wait to get that nice tent of yours.” Micah smirked.

“T-then I'll leave, you won't never see me again. J-just let me go.”

“If you tell me where the money is, I'll consider it.”

Arthur had to squeeze his eyes shut as hard as he could when Micah moved closer with that cursed oil lamp. He found it ironic that he craved so much for anything but the darkness, but was painfully blinded by the light.

“You're tempted, I can see you are. Come on Morgan, you have the power to end this.” 

He remained silent until his head jerked sideways from the painful blow to his jaw. His eyes had opened as a basic reflex so he could anticipate the next one, if there would be one. A mistake which made him cry out twice in rapid succession. Once from the impact, the second time from the burning light.

“Answer me, Morgan!” Micah demanded.

He screamed. Oh God he screamed when a boot slammed down on top of his bare foot. He couldn't even move it, not forward, because the chains held it back. And not backwards because his heels already touched the back of his thighs.

“The money!” Micah snarled.

“I don't have money! I'm s-sorry pa.” He sobbed.

“I ain't your God damned pa.”

Another fist collided with his jaw in the exact same spot. Again he hadn't seen it coming which made the impact much harder.

“I'll do better, I p-promise I'll do b-better.” He stammered. His hands were as high up as they could go in a surrendering posture.

A hand grabbed a fistful of his hair while another wrapped around his throat.

“Look at me, birdbrain.” Micah said.

“D-don't hurt me, I'll earn my k-keep.”

“Look at me!” Micah shouted.

The raised voice made him flinch at first. Determined to do as it commanded he carefully opened his eyes with narrowed slits. It was hard to make out any details on the shape in front of him. No matter how much he tried to focus.

“It's Micah. Remember me?”

He nodded ever so slightly and closed his eyes again.

“Gooood. Same question, where's the money?”

The Blackwater money, not money for a bed and a warm house to sleep in. This was Micah, not Lyle. A dead man couldn't hold his head in such a painful grip. It was Micah, he repeated to himself.

“Micah...”

“Yeees. You're old pal, Micah.”

“L-let me go. I'm begging you.”

“Hmmm, so good.” Micah chuckled. “Just for that, you deserve some food.”

The hands disappeared from his head and neck. His right hand was grabbed, a lock clicked and the extra weight disappeared from it. He had to open his eyes and look at it, even if only for a few seconds. For the first time in God knows how long, he could move freely. Only one arm but it still felt incredible. A spoon was placed in his freed hand.

“Beg me again, just for good measure. Gotta work for your food.”

“P-please give me some food, pa.” He turned his head away in shame. His tone was pathetic tone and he mixed up the name. “Micah.” He corrected.

A can touched his shackled hand, stayed there until he wrapped his fingers around it. When he brought it as close to his mouth has he could his nose was overwhelmed with the smell of beans. Never had food smelled this good to him. Spoonful after spoonful was scooped into his mouth. At first he swallowed entire mouthfuls without even chewing. Only when he got closer to the bottom of it had he taken his time to savor every single cold bean.

“That's enough.” Micah said.

He let out a pitiful sound when the items were snatched out of his hands.

“It's late, I ain't waiting around for you to finish.”

“Don't go, please.”

“I'll be back in a few days.” Micah headed up the stairs.

“No... please I don't want to be alone in the woods.” He whimpered.

“Whatever you say, birdbrain. Left you a canteen within reach somewhere, might have to stretch if you wanna find it. A lot.” Micah snickered.

Arthur opened his eyes to quickly map out it's location, but Micah had already disappeared with the only light source. There weren't any rays of sun coming from the staircase either. He called out after him. A waste of energy, as always. 

~~~

He wasn't sure if Micah had left his right arm free on purpose or by accident. But it allowed him to rub his sore foot and jaw, for which he was grateful. Thirsty as heck from the beans he had tried a few times to find the canteen which Micah said he left. After a few attempts to find it he wasn't so sure anymore if the man hadn't lied. 

_'You're thinking about betraying me again, aren't you Arthur?'_

“Shut up Dutch, I ain't.” When he stroked his jaw again, his mind registered the length of his beard. It couldn't have been two weeks. But that's how long the hairs felt. Two weeks and no one had considered to follow Micah here? So in the end... no one gave a damn.

“Figures...”

_'Lying is unbecoming of you, son. You're tempted, admit it.'_

“Who wouldn't be in this hell hole?!” He said with annoyance.

_'I knew you'd be the first to betray me.'_

“I haven't betrayed you.” He had to shift his focus to something else.

_'Yet.'_

“Just shut up, I'm busy.” His voice was strained as he struggled to stretch his arm as far as he could in an attempt to find the object he desired. If he could sit on his knees, he'd be able to reach further than he had so far.

_'Leave the planning to real men.'_

He snorted at that. “I did, look where that got me.”

His legs were stiffer than a plank. He had to lean heavily to his left and dangle from his shackled wrist before he could slowly shift his legs around. His bruised foot heavily protested against the new and awkward position. With one final push from his free hand he had managed to sit up on his knees. An effort which had taken a lot out of him.

_'When's the last time you tried to get out of here?'_

“Sorry, left my metal breaking teeth back at camp.” He snapped.

A few exhausted breaths later he stretched his arm out again, finally he touched the canteen, only barely.

“Damn you, Micah.”

_'Micah brings in a lot of money.'_

“You keep saying that, when's the last time you looked at the ledger?”

Again he strained to reach the canteen, cursed Micah's name at every failed attempt. If only the bastard would trip down those stairs and break his neck. But that would be his own death sentence, one of thirst and starvation in this nightmare. The sad truth was that he relied on Micah to survive, even then it could barely be called that. He'd been kept in complete starvation for so long. Micah had only fed him once every three or four days? He guessed by the length of his beard.

“Gotcha.” His fingers finally managed to pull the canteen closer until it was safely in his hands. A small victory he intended to savor.

“Not useless, fuck the lot of ya.” He sighed.

After a few much desired sips he closed the canteen and set it down next to him. Not keen to fall asleep on his knees he expended one last effort get back to the position he had grown used to. On his ass with his legs drawn up to his chest. Now that he could rest his arm on top of his knees he could finally rest his head in a more comfortable position. It hadn't taken him long to doze off.

~~~

“Where's the money?!”

The loud voice in his left ear instantly pulled him out of his slumber. He tried to crawl away from it, wanted to get out of reach of a beating.

“I'm going pa, I'm sorry. I'll go to town now.” His panic rose when none of his limbs assisted him in his attempts to get away. 

“The money!”

The increase volume, the audible anger. He had to hurry, show effort. He was desperate to appease the voice but couldn't move away from the wall he sat against, no matter how hard he tried.

“D-don't hurt me, please.” He sobbed.

“Ah!” He cried out when a fist collided with the corner of his mouth, followed by a coppery taste. He opened his eyes to a blinding pain, couldn't keep them that way for longer than a second.

“I'll earn m-my keep I promise, 'm s-sorry for falling asleep.” He stammered.

He heard a frustrated sigh to his left. “Not this again, birdbrain.”

Arthur's brows pulled together. Birdbrain? He tried to use his right arm to cast a shadow over his eyes so he could open them, but it had been re-fastened to the wall.

“Ain't never seen a man scream so much in his sleep as you.”

“M-Micah?” Arthur collected his thoughts. He felt so distant from this place and yet he was here. Had been for a long time now. He didn't understand what had just happened, or the times before.

“Yeeees, finally. Open your mouth, I ain't got long.” Micah said.

Too afraid to anger the man who provided him with food, he complied. Spoonful's of cold beans were pushed into his mouth in rapid succession. Micah hardly waited for him to chew and swallow. Next the canteen was held to his lips and his head forced back by a hand in his hair. He struggled to keep up with the vast amount of water being poured down his throat.

Liquid spurted out of his mouth as he coughed. He tried to tell him to stop but remained trapped in a vicious cycle of trying to breathe and swallow.

“You got more chewing to do, Morgan.”

Something soft and juice half entered his mouth, a peach. Before he had managed to chew even a bit, it was followed by a second.

“Mmmh!” He tried to pull his head away but the hand tightened it's grip on his hair.

He hurriedly swallowed the peaches, almost as a whole. “I'm full. Stop, please.”

_'Where's your manners boy? Be grateful for the food yous gotten, you don't deserve none of it.'_

“T-thank you, for f-feeding me.” The words left his mouth even though he hadn't wanted to say them.

“You ain't making this easy on me Morgan, I really wanna keep you around.” Micah sighed out of frustration.

The heavy weight around his left wrist disappeared. Soon after the same thing happened for his right one. He was pushed down until he lay flat on the floor. His arms were forced behind him, rope was wound around his wrists and upper arms. 

_'Gonna beat you up good boy, you'll learn to be grateful without being told first.'_

“No! I'm sorry pa, won't make the same mistake. Don't hurt me please.” He pleaded as he squirmed against his new bindings, it was too late to resist.

He opened his eyes, a mistake. The darkness continued to be both his ally and worst enemy. Micah pulled him upright until he sat on his knees.

“D-don't hurt me please. I'll work harder.”

“Hm hm, I'm sure you will.” Micah smirked.

The first punch in his gut made him double over in pain. The second one threatened to spill the excessive contents of his stomach on the floor in front of him.

“If you throw up on my floor I'll make you eat it.” Micah threatened.

The next punch forced him to regurgitate the bile in his throat and left a nasty, acidic taste in his mouth.

“The money birdbrain, where is it?”

_'Pay up or you'll be hurting for days, boy.'_

“I ain't got nothing, I swear.” He sobbed.

“Argh!” Micah exclaimed.

“D-Dutch... help, please.”

_'Your new daddy ain't here, ain't even looking for ya. Should'a listened to me. Been more grateful as I taught ya to be.'_

A flurry of blows hit him hard in his ribs until he fell forward and landed on the hardwood floor. He cried out, begged for it to end between every pain filled breath he took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it again. An extra chapter, it started as a 3 chapter thing, now it's up to 6. ( Honestly I could add many more in this setting with this type of angst, but it would probably just drag on for too long and become boring to read). This is the last one before I post both endings (for sure). I just really wanted to get it to a point where I could seamlessly add both endings without having to paste in tons of similar paragraphs. Only the first 2-4 should be similar now, if any. ( Haven't decided as of yet ).
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. It's always a pleasure to hear about your thoughts in the comment section!


	5. Chapter 5

“Where did Dutch hide the money, Morgan?!”

As he lay there, coughing up a storm, the manacles around his ankles were removed.

“Don't...” He begged when a noose tightened around his neck.

A strangled cry lingered in his throat when Micah used it to pull him up to his knees.

“Agent Milton is gonna be here soon. Say goodbye to your last home.” Micah grinned.

“No... don't wanna die.” He twisted against the grip Micah had on the rope around his neck and his arm as he was pulled to his feet.

“My heart bleeds for ya. Come on, up the stairs. It's noon so watch those eyes, Morgan.”

Micah was too strong for him, even held him up in spite of his weak, shaking legs.

_'See what happens when you don't give them who care for ya something in return, they be throwing ya away like the filth you is.'_

“No... I'll work for it, please don't send me away.”

“Oh shit birdbrain. Really changed ya, haven't I?” Micah proudly said.

“Please sir.” He whimpered.

“If only that bounty weren't so high.” Micah sighed.

“Come oooon... You ain't got nothing to lose, tell you're old pal Micah where to find it.”

Micah, bastard, rat. Don't listen to him.

_'Don't be so disrespectful to them who be providing for ya, Art.'_

“Hurts...” He groaned, if Micah wasn't holding on to him he'd surely have fallen over again. Shallow breaths were all he could manage past the pain in his ribs.

“I w-worked for every cent...” He said with defiance.

_'What did you say boy?! You think it wise to be speaking to yer old man like that?'_

“Y-you make me angry.” He protested.

_'I guess someones overdue for a beating.'_

“N-no... no I'm sorry.” He tried to crawl away, the rope around his neck tightened, kept him upright and threatened to cut off his supply of air.

“S-stop, p- 'ease.” He choked out.

“I'll stop if you tell me where the Blackwater money is.”

_'Pay up boy, or you'll be hurtin' more.'_

“O-okay... j'st 'op.” The rope around his neck loosened, he inhaled as much air as he could which sent a wave of agony throughout his chest area.

“The next words out of your mouth better be where the money is.”

“It's-”

“Mister Bell, we've been patient enough. If we have to come down into that stink hole of yours then you're coming with us.” A voice from upstairs said.

“Argh! A few more minutes.” Micah shouted.

Arthur grunted loudly when a fist hit him in his side.

“Now Morgan, where did Dutch hide the money?

“F-fifty p-paces e-” He paused for air.

“Fifty paces east of?” Micah urged him to continue.

“You have ten seconds Mr. Bell.” The voice called out.

“No, fuck!” Micah exclaimed.

“Nine.”

“Fifty paces east of what?!” 

Arthur's choked sob was cut off when he was pulled upright by the rope around his neck.

“Eight.”

“Fucking shit fuck. We're coming.” Micah roughly pulled Arthur to his feet.

“Seven.”

“You're God damned lucky, birdbrain. I'll get it out of Dutch soon enough.” Micah spat.

He stumbled at every step of the stairs he was forced up. At the top of the stairs the hold on him loosened, it caused him to collapse to his knees. He had to keep his head lowered and his eyes squeezed shut to protect himself against the brightness.

“Sorry for the delay agent Milton. Just had some unfinished business.” Micah said.

“I don't give a damn. We'll take it from here.”

His feet were forced closer together, the feeling of cold metal touched his ankles once more. Arms on either side lifted him up, they pulled him forward until his feet no longer dragged along a wooden floor but soft grass instead.

“I've been waiting a long time for this Mr. Morgan.” A familiar and unpleasant voice said to him.

He was lifted higher, cried out when he was half thrown forward and landed on a hard surface.

“You'll receive full payment once he hangs.” Milton stated.

“Well... I must say Arthur, it's been a lotta fun.” Micah sounded further away than before.

_'You've had enough chances, boy.'_

“N-no... don't send m-me away, please.” He sobbed, tried to shift around so he could sit up. The chain which connected the shackles around his ankles allowed him very little movement. With his wrists and arms bound behind his back he stood no chance to get anywhere.

“I'll really miss hearing you beg.” Micah sighed.

He heard a metallic clink, followed by the sound of something being locked.

“Enough. We don't need to hear about your sadistic nature.” Milton said.

“Enjoy the noose, birdbrain.”

_'Waste of space, this is what ya get.'_

“W-wait... I'll do what you want, I'll listen, I promise.” He pleaded.

He was jolted around when he suddenly found himself to be moving. A wagon, he was in a wagon.

“We shouldn't have left him with that degenerate for three and a half weeks.” A voice said.

“Business is business Mr. White. Micah Bell is a useful asset, for now.” Milton replied.

Arthur passed out a few times from the pain in his chest and left side.

_'You were going to tell him where our money is, my money.'_

“N-no Dutch, w-wasnt.”

_'You were never loyal to begin with, Arthur.'_

“I was... I am, y-you never c-came for me.”

_'Why would I come for you? I should have never called you my son.'_

“P-please don't say that.” He struggled to hold back a river of tears.

_'Now you'll die, alone.'_

“No... I'll prove myself. I'll b-be useful.”

'It's too late, Arthur.'

“Who is he talking to? Should we check on him?” White asked.

“You seem awfully concerned for a murderer, Mr. White.” Milton replied.

“Would be a shame if he died before the hanging is all.” White told his companion.

“Keep your eyes on the road. With just the two of us we must be extra vigilant.” Milton ordered.

~~~

Arthur cried out loudly when his eyes had shot open after he'd been pulled out unconsciousness. He squeezed them shut as hard as he could while he desperately tried to escape from the hands around his ankles. Hands which dragged him.

“S-stop! Please pa, don't hurt me, I'll do as told!” He whimpered.

He was maneuvered to sit on his knees, that hadn't stopped his attempts to get away. What did stop him was the contents of his still overly full stomach which spurted out his mouth as he double over. A hand awkwardly patted him on his back as he continued to heave.

“I-I'm not your father Mr. Morgan, please calm down.” The unfamiliar voice sounded concerned.

He coughed and spat the last of the acidic bile out. “S-sorry, I'll c-clean it. Don't send me back to the dark, please.”

“I... I'm not your father.” The voice repeated.

Not Lyle?

“Not Lyle?” He said out loud.

“Lyle? Can you open your eyes?”

He shook his head. “Light hurts.”

“Right, well we need to leave. An empty prison wagon and a tied up Pinkerton agent will make anyone investigate.”

Arthur frowned and craned his neck when he heard someone mumble to his back right. It sounded as if a man attempted to speak past a gag.

“Uh yeah that's agent Milton. I'm agen- well... former agent White.”

Arthur had no idea where he was or whom he was with. The only certainty was the different environment he found himself in, the air was fresh, the sun warm. Was he free? No. He was still bound and shackled.

_'You're about to be hanged for betraying me.'_

“N-no I didn't betray you Dutch, save me, please.” Arthur flinched when a cloth touched the front side of his face.

“It's okay, I'm just going to tie this around your head to cover your eyes. That way you don't get hurt when you accidentally open them.” White assured him as he tied a blindfold around Arthur's head.

“I-I don't wanna die...” He quietly said.

“I'm not here to kill you sir.” The man let out a small sigh. “You probably don't remember me, but you saved my life a few months ago.”

The shackles around his ankles disappeared while the man continued speaking.

“I eh, was chasing after you, got my leg stuck in a trap. I still don't understand why but I guess you must've heard me scream and came back. Thought I was dead but... well you saved me.”

The pressure around his upper arms vanished next. His elbows were no longer painfully drawn closer to each other.

“When I heard agent Milton was going to bring you in, I stepped up and joined him. Figured it might be my chance to repay the debt I owed you.”

Lastly, the bindings around his wrists were no longer there. His new found freedom was strange. He could move all his limbs in whichever direction he wanted.

_'You forgetting something there, Art?'_

“T-thank you.” He whispered.

“It's fine. Mr. Milton here keeps insisting that you're a ruthless killer, I didn't see one that day. I believe you to be a good man Mr. Morgan.”

He nodded. “I'll be good.”

“Right... ehm, can I take you somewhere?” White asked.

_'Guess you be getting another chance to prove you ain't useless.'_

“Gotta work...” Arthur pressed the palm of his hand against his temple.

“Forgive me Mr. Morgan but you seem to be in no condition to work.”

“Need to bring in money.”

“Just tell me where you want to go, I got one of the work horses ready.”

“Corydon. He wants me to work there.”

“Corydon? Ain't that town all the way up north in Indiana?”

Arthur nodded.

“Oh mister, I can't be taking you there, it's too far.” White followed the words up with a heavy sigh.

“We can't stay here. Come on.”

He groaned from the pain in his ribs as he was helped up on a horse and told to hold on to the man who sat in front of him.

“Hold on tight, Mr. Morgan, we gotta ride fast.” White informed him.

~~~

After they rode for many hours, the two men had arrived in the bustling town of Valentine. Arthur had enjoyed the warmth of the mid afternoon sun as much as he could, which hadn't been a lot. The long ride had been an incredibly unpleasant experience for his body. They had to stop more than a few times so he could take a break to empty what little was left in his stomach. By the time they arrived, dusk had started to settle in.

“Who were you talking to just now?” White asked as he helped Arthur dismount.

“Ain't said a word.” Every syllable spoken had been done so with a tremendous amount of effort as his legs attempted to hold him upright.

“Easy, I got you.”

Just as he was seconds away from collapse he was held onto by the man he'd spent the last few hours with.

“Let's get you to the doctor, it's late, hope he's still open.” White already started to carry him up a few steps.

“N-no. Have to earn my keep.” He stammered.

“It's fine, I'll cover the cost for you, it's the least I can do.”

He lacked the energy he needed to protest further. For the best, objecting was something which had never gone well for him, only complete obedience would be tolerated.

After he got settled in with the doctor, White had said his goodbyes, something about having to take care of some things before the Pinkerton's descended on the man.

“Keeping the blindfold on for now is a good call. Try using your eyes only at night for a few days until you can handle that without pain.” The doctor told him.

“'Kay.”

“The salve should help ease the pain of the bruises. You don't seem to have broken any ribs. Can't say the same for your foot, definitely got a fracture in there. So give that some rest and time to heal.

He tried to focus on the man's words, but he was so comfortable in the chair. Especially after he'd only been used to sitting on a hard floor for so long.

“The skin around your wrists and ankles is badly chafed. You sure you don't need me to call the sheriff for you? I know what those kind of wounds indicate.”

_'Your stupid ass better not be bringing the law down on us, Art.'_

“No!” He almost shouted. “Please...”

“Alright, your friend did pay me extra for my silence, just checking. You can relax.”

Arthur shifted around in the chair, leaned back a heavy sigh.

“You're very malnourished, mister. It's going to make you very sick, I'm amazed it hasn't already.”

“I know,” he lowered his head. “I'm not working hard enough. Can't without my eyes.”

“Like I said, you should see a significant improvement in a week or so if you gradually expose yourself to minor amounts of light. I'd start with moonlight and move up from there.”

“A week?” He swallowed hard. “I-If I don't bring in no money for a week he'll...” his words trailed off into nothingness.

The doctor cleared his throat after a long silence. “Let's get you settled in then, I'll guide you to your room.”

“No... I'll be fine. I have to go.” 

“Your friend paid for the night.” The doctor sounded confused.

_'Just accept the fellers offer. You is weak, I know you'd like nothing more than to curl up and laze about.'_

“I ain't weak. I'll prove it.” He repeated with a head shake.

“You don't have to prove anything to me. I can't force you stay. But if you insist on leaving then I can't keep the extra money.” The doctor dropped a few coins in Arthur's hand and closed it into a fist for him.

With the doctors help, Arthur was guided towards the door, then the front porch and finally down a few steps. Part of him screamed to ask the doctor to take him back inside.

“All the best mister. Take it easy and eat plenty.”

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle sarcastically at the man's statement. Part of him screamed to ask the doctor to take him back inside. To help him find some food so he could finally be done with the pain he'd felt in his stomach. But then he'd be a burden and owe yet another man a bunch of money.

_'Pathetic. Can't do nothing by yerself, can you?'_

“I... I c-can.” He stammered.

No he couldn't.

What was he thinking? Telling the doctor he'd be fine on his own, blind in the middle of this busy, mud riddled street. The medicine had eased some of the pain in his ribs but standing on his foot with his already unstable legs was a harrowing experience.

Arthur rested a shaking hand against the wall of the doctor's office. He used it for support and guidance as he limped towards the back of the building. The doctor had told him to wait for the night to try his eyes. He figured it would be best to wait it out in some secluded area.

_'That's right, good for nothing, lazy. What more should I have expected?'_

“Don't need your opinion Lyle.” He sat down on the ground with his back against the wall.

_'Oh you be needing me, who else would have given a useless sack of shit a roof over their head?'_

Arthur pulled his legs up to his chest, hands placed on the ground at his sides, a position which had become a new normal for him.

“Go away.”

_'Shouldn't you be heading to camp instead of being lazy?'_

Camp? Valentine. Of course, Horsehoe overlook is only a few miles south.

“Can't fucking see, need to wait for night.”

_'You barely managed to get over here, how you plan on getting there?'_

“It ain't that far, I'll walk.”

_'With a broken foot. Let me guess, yous planning on going back empty handed too, ain't ya?'_

“You know I ain't got nothing.”

Nothing.

He hated that word. In his mind it was a synonym for failure.

What he said wasn't entirely true, Arthur thought as he closed his fist further. It tightened his grip on the few coins the doctor had dropped in his hand. Food, he could buy some food with it.

_'That money don't belong to you. You hand over every cent you earn, thems the rules.'_

“I know...” The words weak and broken.

_'That how you talk about a man who fed ya?'_

“Fed me?! That weren't enough food to keep a chicken happy for weeks.” A scowl appeared on Arthur's face.

_'Weak little boys don't deserve more than that.'_

“Shut up.” The palm of his hand pressed against his temple. “I was a God damned prisoner.”

_'The man did you a favor, putting you in your place like that. That'll teach ya for not working hard enough.'_

Arthur's left hand rubbed against his temple in small circles as he started to rock back and forth.

“That _man_ is a dirty rat. A bastard, just like you.”

_'You disrespectful little shit.'_

The threatening voice caused his eyes to widen underneath the blindfold. He immediately threw himself to his left. An attempt to dodge the fist he thought was coming for him as he crawled backwards in panic. 

“I-I'm s-sorry pa. Don't hit me please.” He felt cornered when his back bumped against something heavy. His arms went up to cover his face as he waited for a blow which never came.

Laughter. That was all the heard, Lyle's annoying gruff voice as it mockingly laughed at him.

“J-just shut up.” He pulled his knees back up to chest and buried his face in his arms.

_'You seem a bit empty handed there Arty.'_

Arthur's head shot up with his mouth agape. His hands trembled as they searched the floor around him for the coins he had lost.

“No... no.” He crawled around on all four for some time, there were four coins to find. After some time he had managed to recover two of them.

_'Giving up already? What a surprise.'_

“Go away.” He leaned against the wall once more, clenched fists covered his ears.

_'Find the damned money you useless piece of shit.'_

“Not real, you're not real.” Arthur crossed his arms on top his knees so he could once more bury his face in them.

“Who the fuck are you talking to, mister?” A voice asked.

The strangers voice so close that it had startled him and caused him to shift away from it.

“Feller is blind, probably crazy too.” A second voice said.

“You one of them crazies mister?”

_'You in trouble now, Art. Watcha gonna do, hide in a corner until they get bored 'n leave?'_

“Shut up.” He told Lyle.

“What you say to me?!” The tone of the stranger became more threatening.

“Oh, got a mouth on him this one does.”

_'Go on boy, I taught you how to fight. Us Morgan's don't take shit from no one. Or is you yellow?'_

“I told you to shut up!” Arthur shouted.

A pair of hands gripped his collar and pulled him to his feet. With his back pressed against the wall he had nowhere to go.

“I don't normally hit cripples but I'll gladly make an exception for that disrespectful mouth of yours.” The stranger reeked of whiskey.

Lyle's incessant taunting had left him furious. He wasn't yellow, and to prove it he headbutted the man who held on to him, a move which required little accuracy.

“Son of a...!” The man cried out.

Arthur heard the footsteps of the other two approach, he swung at the one to his left but his fist collided with nothing but air. Both his arms were grabbed and forced against the wall as the two men held on to him.

“Can't tell if you're brave, stupid or just crazy.” The man he had hit said.

“Get off me.” Arthur's breathing became labored as he struggled against the men who pinned him to the wall in a T pose.

He cried out as his legs buckled when a fist buried itself in his gut. With all the air knocked out of him he could do nothing but cough and gasp for air. The second hit had the exact same effect on him. The two men on his sides had let go and left him to drop down to his knees while he struggled to breathe.

“Hey look. Fucker dropped a few dollars.”

“N-no... 's mine.” He wheezed.

“Mine now. Hey two more. Four dollars, thanks mister.” The man laughed.

Arthur tried to get back up, but collapsed on his side. He groaned and clutched his stomach.

_'Pathetic.'_

“Y-yeah.” He agreed.

“I say we gut him and throw him in with the pigs where he belongs.” The man on his left said.

“Let's do it, don't no one come 'round here this late anyways.” The one to his right added.

The words barely registered before he was pulled up and dragged forward by two of the men. His injured foot throbbed painfully as he attempted to dig his heels into the mud below.

_'Scrawny little shit like you won't be much of a meal for them pigs.'_

“N-no... don't kill me, please.” He pleaded.

_'That's right boy, beg for mercy.'_

Laughter surrounded him as he was pushed against a fence. A hand against the back of his neck forced him to be bent over on it. The plank he was draped across put a painful pressure against his bruised body. To make matters worse, they had his left arm wrenched behind him and pulled up towards his shoulder blades.

_'Go on, start begging, else you gonna get it.'_

“You cowards enjoy tormenting a blind man?” A new voice questioned.

“This ain't none of your business feller. Get out of here.” The man on his left had tightened his grip on Arthur.

“I'll make it my business.” The new voice said.

No more words were spoken. Flesh collided with flesh, a few pained grunts followed those sounds. He sagged against the fence when the bastard released him. Presumably to join his friends in the beating of the unlucky man who had attempted to come to his aid. Arthur had briefly lifted the blindfold but the sun hadn't fully disappeared just yet. All he had done was add even more pain to deal with when he had tried to see if he could help.

“You okay mister? Can I take you somewhere?” The stranger closed the distance between them.

Arthur flinched when a pair of hands turned him around so he could rest his back against the fence. His trembling arms reflexively flew up to protect his face.

“Stop hitting me pa, I'll beg. P-please 'm sorry. Give me another chance, please sir.” His lips quivered as he searched for more words to please Lyle, anything to make him stop.

Fingers wrapped around each of his wrists and forced his arms away from his face. He pulled his legs up as much as he could to at least protect his chest against more pain.

“...Arthur?” The man was dumbfounded.

He continued to sob until he realized that his name had been said. Arthur. Not Art, nor Arty. Lyle only called him those because the bastard knew he hated it.

“Micah?” He instinctively asked while he simultaneously forced his arms to stop fighting against the hold on them. He knew the rules with Micah. Resistance bad, obedience good. And food, if he was good he'd get food.

“Micah isn't here.” The man assured him.

Arthur frowned at those words. Not Micah.

He recognized the voice. The blindfold absorbed most of the tears which had started to flow as soon as he became aware of who had come to his rescue. Was it a rescue, or just another dream? He'd been here before. Many times, but after every one of them he had awoken in complete darkness. He feared it would be no different this time.

“Charles.” He whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been up for 22 hours or so when I beta'd this one. Please forgive me for the many mistakes which are probably left in it. I could have taken another day, but I'm already behind on other stories and want to try a few more things before whumptober ends. Feel free to point out any serious ones if you want.
> 
> So the bad ending got scrapped, our boy needs love and support. Which is what the next and final chapter will be about.
> 
> Thank you as always for reading! ( again sorry for any mistakes which I missed when on my second pass )


	6. Chapter 6

“I'm just saying Dutch. It's nice and quiet now, best time to be going for the Blackwater money, I can be in and out before you know it.” Micah insisted.

Dutch sighed, closed the book he held and rose up from his cot. “At which point, in the last tree weeks, have I not been clear that I want you to focus all your efforts on finding Arthur?”

“I've been looking boss. Been asking around every time I was following up on a lead.” 

He shoved his way past Micah until he stood outside of his tent. “I need _all_ of you to not double, but triple your efforts, to find our boy. Do I make myself clear?!”

“Everyone's been trying their damnedest Dutch, most of everyone at least.” Hosea said as he cast a quick side glance in Micah's direction.

“I've been trying as hard as the rest old man, harder even.” Micah interjected.

“You were the last one who saw him.” Hosea temper rose quickly.

Micah sighed with annoyance. “Not this again. Already told you, he went out hunting. I didn't think much of it.”

“And yet his horse came back without him not two days later.” Hosea's voice matched the annoyance he heard in Micah's.

“Best watch your mouth old feller, sounding very accusatory there. It ain't my fault that Morgan ran into trouble, like he always does.” Micah retorted.

“That's enough. Micah, remember who you're talking to. And Hosea, we don't blindly accuse anyone without proof.”

“I've warned you about him from the start!” Hosea obviously didn't care that Micah stood there with them.

Dutch raised his hands in defeat. These two had bickered for weeks, it was always the same. Hosea blaming Micah, Micah blaming Arthur, when in all fairness, it had been his fault. He'd been to hard on the boy. Always pushed him to work harder, to bring in more. What if Arthur decided he had enough? No. You've already considered this, he told himself. If he ran, his horse wouldn't have come back without him.

“Dutch can you tell the old man to back off already?” Micah's words pulled him from his thoughts.

“Am I getting too close to the truth there, _Micah_?” Hosea spat.

“Tell me exactly how all this in fighting is helping us find Arthur faster?” He turned to face them with a scowl on his face.

“You're right boss, my apologies.” Micah bowed towards him.

He walked forward while the two men continued to shout at each other. His attention was drawn to the commotion over at the hitching posts. When the men stood next to the lantern he could see Charles and Kieran holding on to a third individual. The sight made his brows pull together, Charles wasn't stupid enough to bring strangers to their camp.

“Mr. Smith what is the mea-” The figure between them let out a pained groan, it was all he needed to recognize the man between them. It was a noise he had heard all too often from his son.

“He's hurt and keeps passing out.” Charles said as they guided the slumped over man towards Arthur's tent.

He hadn't missed the blindfold, nor the rest of him. He hadn't even considered it could have been Arthur on account of how much smaller the man looked. His son was broad, a close match to Charles' muscular body. Now he seemed more like the other man who carried him. Lean, too lean. How? He had only been gone for a few weeks.

“Out of my way, give the man some room.” Ms. Grimmshaw commanded.

In the corner of his eye he spotted Micah who had been edging towards the horses. This hadn't gone unnoticed for Hosea either.

“Where do you think you're going?” His old friend asked.

“What? You don't need everyone hanging over him. Morgan is back, hurray. I just want to be out of the way so he can get proper care and all that.” Micah motioned towards the horses.

“You're not going anywhere.” Hosea unholstered his revolver and loosely aimed it at Micah.

“Easy old man, wouldn't want you to hack up a storm and accidentally pull that trigger.” Micah raised his hands in surrender.

“Because that would be such a damned shame.” John cut in.

“Hosea, put the gun down.” He had to meddle before things got out of hand.

“No Dutch. Until we hear Arthur's side of things I'm going to keep it exactly where it is.” Hosea's icy stare told him that his old friend wasn't going to back down on this.

“Hosea. _Put_ the gun down.” He tried again.

“John, fetch some rope.” Hosea ignored him.

“Dutch, come on. You know this is outrageous.” Micah lowered his arms ever so slightly.

“Charles?!” Hosea called out.

On his left, Ms Grimmshaw and Reverent Swanson, hovered over Arthur's unconscious form as the man rested on his cot. Charles was on his way over to join the four of them outside Dutch's tent, he stopped him, grabbed hold of his arm.

“Mr. Smith...” He quietly said, swallowed before he could continue. “Is... is he blind?”

Charles stared ahead of himself for a few seconds. “I don't know.”

His eyes were pulled away from Arthur when Micah grunted. John first disarmed then forced the man to his knees with a kick to the back of his legs. John then swiftly bound Micah's hands together behind him.

“Hey! Take it easy John.” He said, still not pleased with the idea of accusing someone before they had any proof. Micah hadn't acted suspicious, gave him no indication of betrayal at all. He trusted him, still saw a lot of potential in his brazen nature. Unfortunately, none of the others seemed to have faith in him and his decision to trust the man. If he protested against their attempts to keep him subdued for now, they'd surely revolt.

“Did he say anything Charles?” His main concern was Arthur.

“He called out for his father, then thought I was Micah. I'm not sure what he mumbled during our ride to camp.” Charles told him.

“Now why would he think you were Micah?” There was an ominous undertone in Hosea's voice as the older man's eyes bored holes into Micah's skull.

“I was the last one in the gang he saw. Makes sense he thought it would be me.” Micah had to tilt his head backwards to look up at Hosea.

“Want me to beat it out of him?” John said with a voice too eager to follow up on his request.

“Don't you even _think_ about that.” This time he put up a threatening voice of his own.

“Just a suggestion...” John raised his hands in defeat.

“Where did you find him?” Hosea asked.

“Valentine.” Charles replied.

Hosea sighed. “We'll have to wait for him to be awake then.”

“You ain't leaving me like this until Morgan wakes up.” Micah shifted on his knees and tested John's rope work.

“Watch me.” Hosea snarled.

“What do we do, Dutch?” John asked.

“Micah is right, saying his name is not evidence of guilt.” He felt the need to step in, this was not how they handled things. The others allowed their bias to influence their decisions and he wouldn't stand for it.

“When I found him.” The others turned their heads towards Charles. “A group of tree drunks were beating him, said they were going to gut him.” Charles clenched his fists as he spoke.

“I see.” Dutch knew he sounded cold and uncaring when Hosea narrowed his eyes. He averted his gaze towards Arthur. It hurt so much to see his son in this state. Dirty, unkempt, his collarbone which jutted out. Even in his resting state the boy's hands shook uncontrollably. Not to mention that the light of the lantern revealed how pale his son looked, so awfully pale. The thought of a group of drunkards laying their hands on his boy, in this state, made his blood boil.

“Dutch?” Hosea called after him. No doubt because he had turned his back to them.

“I need to clear my head and think. Micah had better be fine when I'm back or else...”

Dutch mounted his horse and set off for the town of Valentine. The main street was fairly empty, the few people which occupied it seemed to be either drunk or on their way to their respective homes. He hitched up The Count outside the doctor's office, took a few steps towards the saloon but stopped when he overheard part of a conversation.

“It still hurts?” A voice asked.

“'Course it hurts. That dark skinned bastard broke my arm.” A second voice complained.

That was all he needed to hear. His mission easier than expected. Good, that meant he could be back at camp sooner than he thought. Arthur my boy, you looked so weak, defenseless with that blindfold over your eyes. These degenerates showed no pity, lacked all honor and attacked you. Such cowardice will not go unpunished, no one hurts his son and gets away with, no one. Dutch cracked his fingers, then straightened his vest before he approached the group of tree.

“Gentlemen...”

~~~

Voices... too many voices. Close, all around him. Arthur wondered if his head would ever stop feeling as if someone had rammed a hammer into it.

“I still think we should beat it out of him.”

“Try it scarface. See what Dutch will do to you.”

“I ain't afraid of him. Besides, no punishment is strong enough to remove the temptation of beating the crap out of your ass.”

“John, stop.”

“You taking Dutch's side, Hosea?”

“Of course not, but he has a point, we need more proof. This is a serious matter.”

They hadn't stopped, kept bickering. He thought he heard Micah at one point. Must have been a dream, his stomach playing tricks on his mind. After all, hearing Micah meant there would be food soon. As long as he behaves that is.

Maybe it wasn't a dream? What if the rescue was real, what if he really rode on the back of Charles' horse and was brought back to camp? He had that dream before, only it had been Dutch and Hosea who had found him and taken him home. He wasn't cold, nor sitting on hard floor. He was laying flat and felt comfortable. That had never happened in one of his dreams.

Say something you fool. Ask them if it's real.

No, don't. Because then you'll wake up and find out it wasn't. Stay quiet, enjoy the moment for as long as you can.

“He's bolting, grab him!” John called out.

Shouting, grunting, fighting. These were sounds he had never heard in any of his dreams.

“Can only fight a bound man, huh?” That's Micah's voice. Probably trying to wake me up.

There was a brief silence across the camp, until Hosea's voice broke it.

“Charles, don't do it.”

“You're no longer bound. Fight me.” That was Charles, he was fighting?

“Back off redskin. Dutch told you all to leave me alone.” Micah and his foul words. Bastard.

“I know you're involved in this.” Now Charles sounded more like he had in his dreams. The only one who consistently stood up for him. What an honorable man, if only he were more like Charles.

“Charles, I'd happily watch you throw that bastard across the camp, but we have to do as Dutch says, you know that.” Hosea, always the voice of reason.

“Dutch ain't thinking straight, step aside, I'll beat it out of him.” Of course John couldn't care less about going against Dutch, always the rebel that boy was.

_'They're going to kill him, then you'll be alone 'till you starve to death.'_

“No...” He whispered to Lyle.

“ _What_ is the meaning of this?!” The loudness of Dutch's voice and the anger which resonated in every word, made him flinch. It reminded him that he lost what little money he had. That he once again was unable to bring anything to worthwhile and earn his keep.

_'You'll never stop being useless, or a burden on them who be providing for ya.'_

“They're trying to lynch me is what's going on. Against your orders.” Micah sounded nervous, so they were trying to hurt him, or worse.

But that's a good thing. Why was he so anxious at the prospect of Micah being beaten to death?

_'Because you know you'll die without him, you need him.'_

“Shut up.” He quietly mumbled.

But Lyle was right. If he wanted to survive this nightmare, he needed Micah. Before he knew it, he was up on his feet and stumbled over towards the scuffle.

“John! I told you to sto-” Dutch stopped mid sentence.

Not just Dutch, everything and everyone around him seemed to have fallen into a deafening silence. Somehow he had successfully made his way over to the right group, he could smell Micah from where stood, he assumed in front of the man. And if he turned towards where Dutch's voice came from, he was certain John had been the one he halfheartedly pushed away.

“Jesus Arthur. The hell is you doing?!” Yep, it was John alright.

“L-leave him alone.” He panted, already exhausted.

“Arthur, you need to lie down and rest.” Was Hosea ever not concerned when he dreamed? He'd smile if he had the energy for it, but he required every last bit of it to stand on is feet.

“Y-you don't understand... I need him.” He wished his hands would stop shaking as he held them out in a passive gesture to keep hopefully keep everyone at bay.

_'One more minute, that's all I'm giving ya before your weak ass crashes to the ground.'_

“Stay out of this.” He said to Lyle.

“Even in his current state, Arthur has the common sense to understand how we do things in this camp. So I'll say it one more time, John, Charles, stand down, _now_.” Dutch praised him? 

That never happened in a dream.

He pressed the palm of his right hand against his temple. So many things were so different, but other things remained the same. He felt pain, exhaustion, all of them so real. Even when he touched John, it felt... real.

_'You're losing it, Art. You know you're going to wake up in chains any second now.'_

“No. No I'm not.”

_'Aaany second now. And then I'll beat the ever living shit out of you for being the useless, disrespectful little shit that you is.'_

“Why do you _need_ Micah?” Charles asked.

“I... I'm sorry, 'm just so hungry. H-he brings food. I.. just want some food.”

_'Then work for it, boy.'_

“I will... I want to. I just n-need some energy.”

“Who is you talking to Arthur?” John was the first to speak up.

His left hand did the same as his right, pressed against his temple on the opposite side.

“Please don't wake up, don't wanna wake up.” He mumbled.

“Arthur, you're not dreaming.” Hosea's voice, so comforting, so real.

“I know you're involved in this Micah, confess you coward!” Charles yelled.

“I'm tired of you all blaming me for Morgan's incompetence.”

_'Time to be alone in the dark again with yer dear old pa.'_

Arthur panicked when Micah's voice got further away as the man backed up. He feared he was about to be left alone again without food and water. He hadn't begged, that was the problem. He had to give Micah what the man wanted in order to get what he needed in return. But if he did, then he'd probably wake up and the voices of his family would be with him no more.

So hungry.

Out of desperation he turned and threw himself at Micah's feet. At first he came up empty handed, after he searched around for a few seconds, he finally touched a pair of legs and assumed they belonged to Micah.

“Don't go Micah, please don't leave me down here again.” He begged.

_'But you've been disobedient. When little boys are bad they don't deserve nothing but a beating.'_

“No. I'll do what you want.” Sat on his knees it was easy for him to lean down and kiss the tip of Micah's boot. “See? Just like you told me, I'm obeying.”

“Mr. Bell, care to explain?” Dutch asked from behind him.

“Well shit.” Micah sighed.

Arthur let out a startled cry when he was pulled to his feet by the back of his collar. As soon as he stood somewhat straight he was spun around and trapped in a firm chokehold.

“Anyone moves, I break his neck.” Micah snarled.

“Don't hurt him Micah.” Hosea pleaded.

“Drop your guns, _all_ of you, I want them on a nice pile.” Micah demanded.

He clawed at the arm around his neck. He wanted to beg Micah to stop, but the bastards arm pressed harder against his windpipe and caused nothing more than a strangled noise to escape from his throat.

“I trusted you, and you dare to betray me.” Dutch, concerned with nothing but loyalty.

“Save me the speech. I'd gladly follow you Dutch, but not with all this dead weight around.”

“Why Arthur?” Hosea asked.

“Ain't it obvious? The Blackwater money. Almost got it out of birdbrain here too. You'll have to tell me later how the hell you got away from Milton.” Micah complained.

“You sold him out to Milton? You dirty fucking rat.” John spat.

“Blackwater money? Arthur doesn't know where it is.” Dutch told Micah.

“What? Birdbrain told me you shared it with him.” Micah sounded surprised.

“Then you were a fool to believe him.” A fool, Dutch called the rat, finally.

A small smile appeared on his lips. Arthur even managed a half-choked sound of laughter, brief as it was. Micah must have not appreciated that, bastard doubled his efforts to strangle him.

“Morgan and I are going to walk to the horses. Step aside.”

He felt so lightheaded, a weird sensation for a dream. He guessed he'd soon pass out, then wake up again in darkness and chains. It was good while it lasted, to finally experience a moment where Dutch understood exactly what Micah was. A rat.

The pressure against his throat suddenly disappeared, with no one holding on to him, he dropped down to his knees. Arthur's hands reached for his neck as he coughed up a storm. It made him even more lightheaded than before, he felt himself fade, that meant it was over. Back to reality he thought right before his face smacked against the ground.

~~~

Dutch was stunned, It all went so fast. Micah who had started to choke Arthur out, in spite of his demand to be granted passage to the horses. Then, out of nowhere, the old man had appeared behind him and hit him on the head with his bottle. That moment, those seconds of Micah being stunned were all Charles needed to close the distance and lift the man up by his throat before he was thrown several feet away. A remarkable feat.

“Beat the shit out of that bastard.” Uncle cheered with a half broken bottle of whiskey in his hand.

Hosea and John had turned their attention to Arthur, they had already lifted him up so they could carry him back to his cot. At long last he could let out the breath he'd been holding this entire time. He knew that Micah would gladly have taken Arthur with him if he had felt cornered enough.

Dutch's attention shifted from Arthur to Charles. All Micah felt now was the wrath of a very angry warrior as fist after fist smashed into his already bloody face.

“Mr. Smith, that's enough.” He walked over to them, nodded down at Charles when the rage filled man looked up at him. As soon as Charles got up, Dutch placed his foot on Micah's neck but hadn't applied pressure.

Terror filled eyes blinked away until they were no longer obstructed by blood. 

“Look at me.” His icy cold stare prompted the man's eyes to widen further.

When Micah attempted to speak, he applied a bit of pressure to the man's throat and shook his head at him.

“Understand this. The punishment for betrayal is death. The punishment for hurting my son, will be far worse.”

“You're going to suffer for this Mr. Bell.” His voice low and threatening. 

Dutch had never before felt anger like this. Earlier on, when he ended the lives of those tree drunkards who attacked his blind and defenseless son, he felt anger. But nothing like this. A man he trusted, stood by side with. A man he defended against the mistrust from others, that man had betrayed him. And worst of all, that man had kidnapped and tortured his son.

Dutch stepped back when Micah's struggles had weakened, he must have pushed down harder on the traitors throat while the possibility of Arthur being blind crossed his mind.

“Mr. Smith. Tie this _traitor_ to a tree somewhere. I want this filth to be recovered before I get started on him.”

“With pleasure.” Charles said as he roughly pulled Micah to his feet.

“How is he?” Dutch walked over to Arthur's tent, it was just him and Hosea now. Arthur lay on his side and faced his direction while Hosea sat down on the stool he had brought over. He took stock of Arthur's injuries, at least the ones he could see. He'd investigate further once the sun came up and would make a mental note of every single injury he came across. Determined to do to Micah as Micah had done to Arthur, only ten times worse.

“Out cold it seems.” Both of Hosea's hands held one of Arthur's in between them.

“I should have trusted your judgment.” He let out a deep sigh.

“Don't. Now is not the time.” Hosea cut in.

“Do you think he's...?” Dutch hand hovered closer to the blindfold.

~~~

Arthur wasn't ready for the blindfold to be lifted, the action startled him and he was caught off guard with his eyes open. His pained outcry echoed throughout the camp as his body curled up protectively.

“Dammit Dutch! Haven't you hurt him enough?!” Hosea snapped.

“I... I didn't know, I just wanted to see if... if... I'm sorry son.”

“Sorry... don't hit me please” He mumbled against his arms which covered his face from any incoming blows.

“There's nothing you should be apologizing for.” Hosea cooed.

He tensed up when a hand rested against his back. But instead of the pain he feared it would inflict, the hand rubbed around in circles, gentle and reassuring. How could he dreaming again? Back to back like this, he hadn't woken up in that hellhole at all.

“Is...is this real?” He asked after he lowered his arms ever so slightly.

“As real as it gets.” Hosea assured him.

Of course that's what he wanted to hear. That didn't mean it was true. The pain in his eyes certainly felt real. The darkness still feels real.

“Son, does the light hurt you?” Dutch asked.

He hesitated to answer. It could be a trick, a test to see if they would have something new to torture him with. No, Dutch, maybe. But not Hosea, never Hosea. He nodded his head. Heard a squeaking noise right after.

“Try to open them now.” Dutch said.

“No please... It hurts.” He whispered.

_'Obedience Art. Do as you're told or else.'_

Arthur whimpered. His hand trembled as it carefully pushed one side of the blindfold up. The muscles in his neck tensed up as he slowly opened one eye. The faint moonlight still hurt, but not as much, with some effort he could keep it open and see through narrowed eyes.

“Can you see?” Hosea asked him.

“A little... it's blurry.” He pushed up the other side of the blindfold, eager to see more now that the pain was manageable. 

“Not blind then.” Hosea sighed with relief.

_'You know what you have to do, boy.'_

With a deep sigh Arthur shifted around so he could sit up, a not entirely painless effort which made him groan and hug himself.

“And where do you think you're going?” Dutch questioned.

His head was lowered, eyes fixed on his right hand which he held out so he could rub his wrist and flex his fingers.

“No chains.” He mumbled. When he moved to stand up both Dutch and Hosea placed a hand on each of his shoulders to keep him seated.

“It's night, I have to go work, earn my keep.”

“No you do not, you're going to stay here and let us take care of you.” Hosea's voice was stern.

His shoulders sagged as he lowered his head, when his lips started to quiver Hosea sat down next him.

“Do you not want to stay here?” The older man asked.

“I... I just want to earn some food.” His voice was brittle.

Hosea and Dutch both exchanged a look. When the oldest of the two got up, he was immediately replaced by Dutch who now sat next to him.

“Did Micah make you work for food?”

Arthur pinched his own arm before he answered, just to be sure. “He came by a few times.”

“How many?” Dutch coldly asked.

The question made him frown, but he had to answer. Refusal was not an option. He started a silent count with his fingers, to ensure his answer would be truthful and not get him in trouble. When his fingers stopped at four, Dutch covered them with his own hand.

“I see.” Dutch's head was turned to the left.

Arthur had no idea what caught Dutch's attention, his vision too limited in range. Beyond a few feet ahead of him everything was engulfed in a frightening blackness. Just as he felt a panic rise from within, Hosea emerged from the dark void with a can of food in each hand.

“We've got peaches and eh, tomato soup.” Hosea held out both of them. “You can choose.”

When he remained still and silent Hosea made the choice for him and offered him the peaches. Instead of accepting it, Arthur shifted forward and dropped to his knees, he leaned over and lowered his head to Hosea's boots. Before he could plant a kiss on them, the older man had taken a step back and called his name out with a mixture of shock and anger.

“Arthur?!”

The anger startled him, made him flinch and retreat until his back was pressed against his cot. “I-I'm sorry. I f-forgot to beg.” He stammered.

“I have to go do something.” Dutch sounded angry too, left the tent within seconds.

He pulled his legs up to his chest and placed his hands on the ground at his sides. Both of them were angry. Tears welled up in Arthur's eyes, he really messed up and would be denied food again.

“Arthur.” Hosea groaned as he knelt down in front of him. “You _never_ have to beg. Do you understand?”

Fingers gently wrapped themselves around his wrist, they brought it over to the can of peaches until he held on to it. His hand shook so much and threatened all the liquids to spill out.

“Just a second son, I'll hold it for you.” Hosea set the can down, so he could move and sit down next to Arthur.

While he greedily filled his mouth with one delicious peach after the other, he heard some distant screams.

Hosea cleared his throat. “Don't eat too fast. You'll get sick.” He said a bit louder than normal.

“Is... is that Mi-” 

Hosea cut him off. “Focus on your meal, Susan will have both our asses if you're covered in peach juice.”

His mouth quivered as it attempted to curl upwards. He wanted to smile at that, he really did. But Arthur feared that if he allowed himself to be happy for even a single second, it would all be ripped away again.

“You still hungry, son?” 

When he hesitated to answer, Hosea's hand rubbed around in circles against his back.

“Y-yes.” He croaked.

“This soup is probably a bad idea with those unsteady hands of yours.” Hosea stated.

“S-sorry.” He quietly said.

“Don't apologize for that.” 

“So- ...okay.”

_'You forgetting something important, Arty?'_

“T-thank you, s-sir.”

The older man let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “I'll go see if we have some bread.”

His hand reached for the fabric of Hosea's pants when the man had gotten up. Widened blue eyes stared up at the older man.

“Please don't leave me.” He begged. 

“Sit on the bed for me, I no longer have the knees for anything lower.” Hosea smiled, sat down next him once he got up to the bed.

“What's on your mind, son?” The older man asked.

“I... I'm afraid that all this is just a dream.”

“I see, is there anything I can say or do that would convince you otherwise?” 

A frown formed on his face. “...I don't know.” He said after a long pause.

“Then will have to rely on father time.” Hosea patted him on his thigh.

“You'll never guess what I found in my tent.” Dutch announced his presence before he entered Arthur's tent. He held out two chocolate bars for Arthur to take.

“Let me open that for you.” Hosea took one in his hands and started to unwrap it.

“Careful, old Hosea here still has quite the sweet tooth.” Dutch chuckled.

“Not as much as Arthur, remember that time when we robbed some rich fellas house and found an entire crate full of these?”

Dutch's smile widened. “How could I forget. Instead of going for the jewels young Arthur here came home with a satchel full of them.”

“And then he ate them all in the same night. Hosea continued.

“And spent the entire morning throwing up.” Dutch finished the story for his old friend and both men laughed in unison.

“It was worth it.” The corner of Arthur's mouth curled upwards.

Hosea handed him the unwrapped bar. Arthur's first bite was heavenly, he let it sit on his tongue and relished the sensation of it melting on top of it. It couldn't be a dream. It wasn't.

The three men continued to reminisce about the past for a few more hours. It was then that it became harder for Arthur to keep his eyes open. The pain in his ribs had returned with a vengeance, as had the splitting headache from the brightened light of the moon.

“Get some rest my boy. I'll make sure Mr. Pearson has a feast prepared for you in the morning.” Dutch told him.

His head was lolled forwards until Dutch had spoken, the words instantly made him more alert. His head switched between Hosea and Dutch, he wanted to beg them to stay but they had already spent so much time on him. By now, the two of them have been tired themselves.

“I'm going to get a more comfortable chair than this tiny stool.” Hosea poked at it with his foot at first, he then took it with him out of Arthur's tent.

Arthur glanced up at Dutch, but only briefly. “I... I'll get back to work tomorrow.” 

“We'll see how you can help out once you're better, not a moment sooner.”

He flinched when Dutch rested a hand on his shoulder. He wasn't sure why Dutch made him feel anxious, but not Hosea. That's not true. He did know, with Dutch he felt the fear and pressure which came with a failure to earn his right to stay here.

“My boy. My dear boy. You mean more to me than anything in the world. I need you to know that.”

Arthur softly nodded.

“I'm sorry for what happened to you, I truly am. I promise to put more weight on your warnings from now on. I failed you, I hope you can forgive me for that.”

Arthur lifted his chin to look up at the man. He couldn't find the words he searched for. He tried for a few moments, but then Hosea entered with a chair in his hands.

“Alright. I'll take first watch.” Hosea placed it down next to Arthur's cot, his eyes darted between the two other men who occupied the tent.

“I'll relieve you in a few hours. You won't be alone Arthur, we promise.” Dutch assured him.

~~~

_'Wakey wakey Art, time to get to work.'_

“No.” Arthur mumbled in his sleep.

_'Get out of bed before I drag you out by your hair!'_

“No!” He shouted as he sat up, the loud outcry was followed by an even louder one when the morning sun struck his eyes with daggers.

Someone stumbled next to him.

“Arthur?!” Dutch was over him within a second. “Son, what happened?”

“Hurts.” He mumbled into his arm which he now draped over his eyes.

Dutch cursed something fierce. “I found the blindfold.”

He shook his head. “No more darkness.”

“Arthur. You have to for now. Lower your arm so I can put it on.”

_'Do as your told.'_

He lowered his arm with reluctance. His head was gently lifted so Dutch could knot it against the back of his head. He missed the light so much but was cursed to remain in the darkness. Dutch and Hosea has assured him many times that it wouldn't be for long. Their words were just that to him, words.

_'Stop whining you pathetic little shit.'_

“Shut up.” 

“I... haven't said anything.” Dutch sounded taken aback by his statement.

_'You're still in bed instead of being out there working.'_

“I know! Just shut up.”

“Arthur.” Dutch said his name with a sterner tone.

_'You think you're allowed to stay here for free, boy?'_

“Stop... please stop.” He curled up on his side, brought his hands to his head and pressed them against his forehead.

“My boy what's wrong?” Dutch softened his voice.

_'You worthless sack of shit.'_

“Go away, please go away.” He tapped his forehead repeatedly.

There was a brief silence before he heard Dutch move and exit the tent.

“Where are you going?” Hosea's asked in the distance.

“He told me to leave.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. And I don't appreciate the immediate accusation.” Dutch huffed.

“I'll take over, go shoot that bastard already. He shouldn't be around the camp anymore.”

“He's going to suffer before he dies.” Dutch's words were filled with venom.

“Take him away from the camp or I'll shoot him myself. Our camp is no place for your vengeance.” Hosea's voice drew closer.

“Fine. Mr. Smith, John!” Dutch's voice on the other hand, became more distant.

Now that he felt more awake, Arthur moved his arms and legs around, to his surprise there was no rattling of chains, no heavy metal around his limbs. It was still strange to be... free again.

“Morning sunshine.” Hosea attempted to sound cheerful.

Arthur knew it was a show because the man had sounded angry as heck only seconds ago.

“Can you sit up? Brought you breakfast.”

He was up in an instant, already prepared to lean over and show his gratitude in the way Micah wanted.

“Ah ah!” Hosea told him off.

Right. Not Micah, not the cellar. “Sorry.” He muttered before he planted his ass back down on the cot.

“Thank you, I've got you some bread and cheese. Hold your hands out.”

Arthur did as told, his hands still trembled but not as much as they had last night. Hosea sat with him during his entire meal. Paper rustled every so often. He figured Hosea's must be reading the news. Afraid to disturb the man and annoy him into leaving, he remained quiet.

_'Boy! If I have to tell you to get up and make some money one more time...'_

“No. I'm sorry pa, I'll go now.” The plate fell off his lap and down to the ground when he got to his feet.

“Whoa there. Where do you think you're going?” Hosea's hands rested against Arthur's chest to keep him at bay.

“I have to earn my keep. He'll get angry if I don't.”

“Dutch won't get angry, and if he does I'll kick him where the sun don't shine.” Hosea assured him.

“Not Dutch... Lyle.”

“Ly-” Hosea stopped himself. “Arthur, sit down.” Hosea's request was followed without hesitation.

“You're safe, with your real family. We love you and would never send you out while you're hurt.” Hosea explained.

“He... he won't leave me alone.” Arthur's hand pressed against his temple.

The cot moved when Hosea sat down next to him, the older man used his arm to pull him closer.

“Do you trust me, son?”

“Always.” His voice cracked.

“Then you know I'm being truthful when I say that we'll all be here to help you get through this.”

He hesitated, torn between being told he had to earn his right to stay and Hosea assuring him he was fine. He trusted him, of course he did. But it was so difficult to ignore Lyle's voice, no matter how hard he tried.

“But-”

“Ah ah, no but. You are my son, our son. Not that... bastard of a man.” Hosea had never been able to say Lyle's name.

“I know...” He sniffled.

“Say it for me, Arthur. Tell me who's son you are.” Hosea gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Y-you and Dutch's.” He quietly said.

“You're dammed right we are. We're going to get you through this. Before you know it, that blindfold will be off and you'll be gallivanting around on your horse again.”

“Gallivanting...” He repeated the word with the tiniest of smiles on his lips.

“It's an appropriate word.” Hosea sported a smile of his own.

Arthur leaned against the older man. Hosea, his teacher, friend and father.

“We need to get you washed and into some fresh clothes.” Hosea smirked.

“You saying I stink?” Arthur's tiny smile widened a bit.

“Not at all.”

“Con-man.” He murmured.

“That'll be the first thing we do to get you back in the swing of things.” Hosea mused.

“You know I'm bad with the whole pantomime business.” Arthur complained.

“We'll take Lenny with us, boy could teach you a thing or two.”

“I'd like that.” He shifted closer to Hosea.

Definitely his father, not Lyle. Lyle was dead, Micah would follow suit before long. It was over, the fear of being trapped in a dream slowly faded as Hosea held him.

He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing all the comfort bits. Hence why it's so bad. It felt like I could take this so much further. I'm actually considering adding a second part at some point. Micah is technically alive still, so there's room for more. Arthur's suffering and his new mental affliction is not something which can be easily overcome. Which is why I wanted to do more with it.
> 
> Anywho, sorry for the wonky comfort bits. Hopefully I'll get better at it.
> 
> Thank you for sticking around, hope you enjoying at least something. Would love to hear from you as always!


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